


Bars of Bone and Fragile Humanity

by tsukinofaerii



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Feral Behavior, M/M, The Alpha Pack, Torture, Violence, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-13 17:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 80,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukinofaerii/pseuds/tsukinofaerii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was going to be a quiet summer, until the Alpha Pack steals Stiles in the middle of the night. While he works on escaping, the Sheriff is thrown headfirst into the world of werewolves. Finding Stiles is only the start of the pack's troubles though. Humanity is a fragile thing, and once it breaks there's no telling what will happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Broken Windows

**Author's Note:**

> Posted with gigantic thanks to Molten Moon, Night Reveals, @ratherastory and the entire slew of people on Twitter who twisted my arm and dragged me through writing this. The story is finished in rough and being posted as the beta is finished.

"I'm headed to bed, son." 

Stiles peeked up over his book at his father, who was leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, arms crossed and expression tentative. 

"Okay," he answered cautiously. "I'll be in bed soon. Just want to finish this part." Stiles waggled the book at his father. "Anyone ever tell you how dirty Shakespeare was? Because I kind of can't believe this is required summer reading."

"I remember something like that. Nunneries?" A smile flickered across his dad's face. It didn't last long, but it was there. Stiles wanted to cheer. _Progress_!

"And a thousand words for dick," he added for good measure. Always end on a high note. "Dirty old poet."

"Yeah." His dad straightened up from the doorway, but he was still smiling. "Good night, kiddo. I'll see you in the morning."

"Night, Dad." Stiles waggled the Unabridged Works of Shakespeare until the door was closed. Then he sagged back, energy drained. Keeping cheerful was hard work. 

The summer, which _was_ supposed to be full of bro-hood and fun had been reduced to homework, housework and Skype. Now and then Scott came by, and Stiles was allowed the occasional trip outside to keep up his vitamin D levels, but that was _it_. 

Ever since the everything of the fall and spring, he and his dad had been on eggshells with each other. It wasn't his dad's fault, he knew; it was all on Stiles. No matter how he tried to phrase it, there was really no getting around the fact that he'd crashed his Jeep into a warehouse with—as far as his father knew—no reason at all. He hadn't even been drunk. For a while, he'd expected to be shipped off to some sort of summer bootcamp program with a drill sergeant named Buster and guard dogs on the gate. Mere grounding was a godsend. 

It was just annoying that it had to happen, that was all. 

Sighing over his summertime fate, Stiles sank back into the blankets and tried to finish the _Tempest_. It wasn't as bad as some of Old Willy's works—Stiles had gotten in trouble at a school showing of Romeo and Juliet once for shouting that she wasn't really dead, just mostly dead—but it was either Shakespeare or Twilight. Stiles may have recently become the supernatural world's favorite chew toy, but he drew the line at reading about sparkly vampires. A man had to have limits. 

The last few pages of the scene dragged, the way only required summer reading could. Stiles finished the last line with a relieved groan and bookmarked his page before turning off the light. It was full dark outside, the kind of velvety night where the moon had already set and there was nothing between him and the stars. Stiles watched them sleepily, arms folded behind his head.

Something blocked the stars.

He had just enough time to roll over before the window smashed in, glass flying everywhere. The blanket caught the worse of the shards, but one piece scored him across the forehead, sending blood down his forehead with the kind of enthusiasm only head wounds could manage. Stiles rolled off the edge of the bed just as something heavy slammed into the pillow he'd been lying on. Scrambling to his feet, he ducked his head and broke for the door. 

"I don't think so," a woman's voice leered at him. Someone snagged the back of his shirt. Stiles tried to slither out of it, but they grabbed his arm and _twisted_ , trapping it behind his back. His arms screamed as they were pulled up, shoulder joints popping; whoever had him didn't even grunt at the extra weight when he tried to sag to the floor rather than follow the pressure upward. _Werewolf. Fuck._

The bedroom door slammed open. "Stiles!"

"Dad, run!" Twisting into the pressure, Stiles kicked out. He felt his heel connect with something, heard a crack of cartilage and bone snapping. The werewolf holding him screamed, and its grip loosened just enough. Stiles dropped, wiggling free of shirt and arm-lock. His knees collected more glass shards when he landed. The pain barely registered as he, again, ran for the door. 

He collided with his father somewhere near the desk. Stiles grabbed his dad by the jacket and shoved, stumbling when his toe struck the computer chair. "Go, go, go!" 

"Not so fast, little wolf." In a blur of motion, the doorway was suddenly blocked, deep red eyes glowing like something out of a nightmare. 

Claws dug into Stiles' shoulder. She lifted him up with one hand, wrenching him away from his father and throwing him across the room. His back and head slammed into the wall with a dull _crack_. The landing was worse than the fall, books and knickknacks scratching and bruising as he came to rest on a pile of broken shelves that dug into his back and hips. Drywall rained down, coating his hair and shoulders, scattering across the carpet. The room spun slowly around him. 

_Head injury,_ he thought, swallowing back the taste of stomach acid. _Maybe a concussion. Fuck my luck._

While Stiles was still dazed, two more werewolves picked him up, one under each arm. Their eyes were red, too. Which, some part of him tried to point out to the rest of him, was wrong. _Wrong._ A pack only had one alpha. Not _three_. 

As Stiles watched, two more climbed in the window, eyes the same alpha red. 

_Or five,_ he amended. _Leave it to fucking werewolves to break their own rules._

The female alpha had his father in a choke-hold, which she gave up gracefully as one of the new alphas took over from her. She turned to circling the room, dragging her fingertips across his things curiously, hip-checking his chair when it was in her way. Glass crunched under her boots. It was still too dark to see her face, but Stiles had an impression of long hair and a lot of black leather. 

It figured. Black leather was the werewolf dress code. 

"What do you want?" his dad demanded. He struggled in the wolf's grip uselessly, elbows and knees digging in and being subsequently ignored. Stiles could have told him that wouldn't work. He'd been there—werewolves didn't exactly have much give in them. It was like fighting steel bars. "Who _are_ you people?"

"Maybe you should ask your son that question." The lady alpha—probably the leader, as far as Stiles could tell—smiled over her shoulder, teeth flashing white and sharp. It should have been impossible to see her smiles in the dark room, but somehow she always managed to catch the light just right. Werewolves loved their drama. "This is his... _friend's_ mess. We're just cleaning it up."

"Leave my dad out of this," Stiles ground out between clenched teeth. He couldn't lift his head without everything going fuzzy, so he couldn't see his father's face. That, unfortunately, was probably for the best. "He doesn't know anything. Let him go." 

His dad went quiet. The weight of his stare pressed down on Stiles' shoulders, made it hard to breathe. If he listened, Stiles could almost hear the dots being connected, the educated guesses being made. He hated it; it was the feeling of his father _on a case_. The last thing Stiles wanted was to be another mystery for his dad to have to figure out the solution to. 

But it was too late for that. Honestly, it had been too late starting on that one night out in the woods, on the hunt for something macabre and stupid. 

"Oh, I'm going to." Another flash of inhuman teeth. The longer she smiled, the longer the teeth seemed to get. Then Stiles blinked, and they were back to normal again. "Alive and uninjured, even. I hope you're suitably grateful." 

Glass cracked, and suddenly she was _there_ , in his face, claw points delicately cradling his jaw. Stiles tried to fight, tried to yank away, but his knees wouldn't work. He was stuck as she caressed him. Up close there were a few more clues—short for a woman, he thought, and maybe dark skin. Definitely dark hair—smooth and speckled with shards of broken glass from their dramatic entrance. But that still didn't narrow down anything helpful.

"Of course, _you_ aren't an outsider. Are you, little wolf?" Her breath smelled like peppermint gum, sharp and sweet. "Or maybe you are. Where's Hale when you need him, hm?" 

"Derek's not my alpha." Stiles met her eyes, knowing it was a stupid move and not caring. She wasn't going to kill him. If she was, she would have already done it. All of Stiles' experience with werewolves suggested that they didn't take time for witty repartee when they could just go in for the kill. 

Except for Peter.

_God, let her not be like Peter._

Blood ran heavy down his neck, making warm lines across his chest and shoulders as it dripped slowly to the floor. Glass ground into his skin, but for the most part didn't slice through his pajama bottoms. His feet felt like ground hamburger with added pain and oozing; probably there were shards trapped in his heels. _Forensic evidence,_ Stiles thought, a little giddily with adrenalin. Not that it would do much good. No one would take a look at the crime scene and think, _Aha, werewolves!_ No one who would keep their job for long, anyway.

The one fondling his face glanced behind her, head tilted thoughtfully. "I don't think the Sheriff needs to hear this."

Something snapped, and his father folded forward with a soft sound. 

"No!" Stiles screamed, lunging forward, only to be yanked up short. Claws sliced through his arms, points pressing in nearly to the bone. It didn't stop him from struggling forward until the woman landed a sharp slap upside his head. Four lines of fire sliced along his cheek from her claws. 

"He's only unconscious," she snapped. Sharp points from her claws dug in as she gripped Stiles' jaw. "You should be worried about yourself." 

Calming down wasn't going to happen. Stiles tried to force it anyway, counting his breaths until they started to slow. In the dark, it was impossible to tell if she was being honest. His dad was a silent lump of shadow; he couldn't even be sure he was breathing. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. That was the longest a head wound should keep a person unconscious, unless it was serious trauma.

"Are you going to kill me?" Stiles asked quietly, wrenching his eyes away from his father. "If you're going to do it, then lock him up somewhere else. I don't want him to find me." 

"Such concern. Why don't you tell us if we need to kill you?" At a signal, Stiles was lowered to the floor, so he wasn't hanging by his arms. His werewolf-manacles kept a grip on his shoulders, but didn't seem too concerned about an escape attempt. Which, he wasn't ashamed to admit, was justified. 

"I don't know why you would." Stiles kept his head tilted back, so he could at least try to maintain eye contact. "I'm a kid. Who are you people?"

"Two weeks ago, we found a pair of strays in the woods," the alpha female said, clearly choosing to ignore Stiles' question. "A male and a female. Imagine our surprise when they smelled as much like _you_ as they did a wolf pack. Why is that, I wonder?"

 _Erica and Boyd?_ He hadn't seen them since they were all in Argent's basement—Stiles had assumed they'd gone back to Derek, or were at least lying low. "What did you do to them?" 

"Don't worry, little wolf. They're alive. Mostly."

Stiles' chest tightened at the non-answer. Maybe they weren't his friends, but they didn't deserve to be hurt. His mind raced, trying to sort out what could be safe to say, and what would get him killed. If he could get out, he could call Scott, maybe put his werewolf nose to good use. They couldn't abandon Erica and Boyd. 

"What do you want to know?"

She crouched down, red eyes fading back to whatever their natural color was. "There were two pack scents on them, Hale's and yours," she said conversationally. "Why do they smell like your pack?"

"We..." Stiles licked his lips. "There was a hunter. Gerard Argent. He captured us. They probably picked up my scent when I tried to free them."

"You tried to save them?" Surprise colored her voice. "You? A human?"

"Yeah, right before getting the crap kicked out of me," he managed, trying unsuccessfully to keep his voice from shaking. "By a ninety year old man who was dying of cancer. It only cost me about a million bad ass points." 

"Why?" The claws were back, but this time they sliced through the carpet rather than him. Stiles approved. "Why did you try to save them?"

 _Are they for real?_ "Why wouldn't I? It was the right thing to do! They're..." Stiles trailed off, shakes his head. 

"Your responsibility?"

Stiles could tell that he was in hip-deep and sinking, but he still nodded, not even sure why he did. It just felt _right_. "You could put it that way," he said. "I couldn't watch them be _tortured_ if I could do something about it."

One of the werewolves by the window growled. It crawled up Stiles' spine like a bug with ice for feet. It was the kind of noise cavemen heard back in the day. Usually before they became something's dinner.

The alpha female stared at him for a long time. Stiles had a feeling that he'd surprised her. Which wasn't weird; he surprised a lot of people. What was weird was that it didn't feel like a disappointed sort of surprise.

"We questioned them about their pack," she said, after a minute of Meaningful Staring. Stiles' stomach churned at the implications. "Do you know, they're still bound to Hale. Wouldn't say a word about him, not even his favorite breakfast cereal. But do you know what else they wouldn't tell us?" The woman leaned in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Anything about _you_."

He stared. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means what it means." Patting his cheek, she rose back to a standing position. "Leave the Sheriff. I think we need to arrange a little reunion between the little wolf and his... _friends_."


	2. Missing Persons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for implied torture. Please see the end notes for specifics. With a great many thanks to ratherastory for her beta work, and a great many others for their support, hand-holding and provision of writing music.

Randy Stilinski groaned as consciousness crept its way back in. Everything ached, especially his head, and he was pretty sure there were bruises on his bruises and rug burns on his palms. Wincing, he pushed himself to his knees, head hanging between his shoulders.

"I'm getting too old for this," he muttered, scrubbing at his stinging cheek. His fingers slipped through something warm and slick. 

Memory rushed back in a painful blur.

"Stiles!" Knees and hips popped painfully as he leaped to his feet. He flipped on the light, just in case one of the shadows happened to be his son. 

Better light didn't show anything helpful. The room was empty, curtains blowing in the broken window like an accusation. A strange three-pointed symbol had been carved into the wood on the inside of the door. It was a deep cut, but not clean like an edged knife would have been. Randy pressed his hand to the door, then pulled it open to start searching.

" _Stiles_!"

There was no answer from anywhere in the house. He still went room by room, checking closets and corners and under beds, even though in his soul he knew his son was gone. Nowhere else in the house had been touched. Even the front door was still locked, and both cars were in the driveway. 

As soon as he verified that he son wasn't anywhere in the house, he reached for his cell phone where it was plugged in. Then he paused, thumb hovering over the speed dial. 

He should call the department. Get backup, hand the case over to someone who wasn't emotionally compromised. He _knew_ that. Every bit of training he had emphasized how badly things could go when you took the law into your own hands, and that went double when you were an officer. 

But his instincts said something else. They said that the department was down by half of the officers since the incident at the department, what some people in town were calling Horror Night. That there just weren't enough people for a real search party, and a half-assed one would only put Stiles in danger. Whoever it was hadn't hesitated before breaking into the Sheriff's house and assaulting his son. They'd known exactly what they were doing and hadn't cared about the risks. 

Whatever Stiles was in, he was in deep. 

_Where's Hale when you need him, hm?_

_Derek's not my alpha._

Throwing his phone down to the table, Randy went to grab his car keys and his service revolver. He had answers to hunt down.

* * *

Derek heard the unmistakable sound of a squad car long before it turned down the drive. Police cars had heavy engines, and a stern sort of rattle from how they were built. Sighing, he straightened his legs, giving the hole that had once been Peter's semi-final resting place a wary look. It was still missing a few slats, but mostly it didn't look like a grave at least. If the Sheriff—and it _was_ the Sheriff, Derek recognized the _ping_ of his engine from the last time he'd been arrested—noticed it, probably there would be some unwelcome questions, but without a victim there wasn't a crime. 

He should probably start finding less conspicuous places to hide bodies. 

By the time Derek had brushed the sawdust off his jeans and gone to the porch, the Sheriff had already parked. He'd left his lights on and was leaning against the driver side door, arms crossed defensively. Every time he shifted his weight, the thick crust of leaves crackled under his shoes. 

"Sheriff Stilinski," Derek said cautiously, stepping off the porch and easing around so he wasn't blinded by the headlights. A cool breeze ran over his skin, tickling the hairs of his arms and raising his hackles. Something was up. Fear hung in the air, sour and raw. "I didn't expect to see you out here tonight. Is something wrong?" 

Once the light wasn't in his eyes, Derek's eyebrows lifted slightly. For once, the man wasn't in uniform, but in a blue plaid over shirt and a tee. It was easy to see where Stiles got his lack of fashion sense from.

"You bet your ass something's wrong." The Sheriff pushed off the car, hand going to his hip. Even if he wasn't in uniform, he still had his gun. "I want to know what happened to my son, and I think you're the person who can give me answers."

Derek stopped approaching. Chances were that the Sheriff didn't have wolfsbane bullets, but if he got shot and healed a few minutes later, the wound would be the least of his problems. "I haven't seen him." 

"Then maybe you can tell me what this means." Pulling out his phone, the Sheriff held it up, then tossed it. Derek grabbed it out of the air, turning it around. When he saw the photo, he cursed. The rough triskelion stared at him, damning. He hadn't thought they'd move so soon—definitely hadn't thought they'd move against humans.

Rather than admit any of that, Derek said, "This is Stiles' room."

He knew he'd said the wrong thing when, a second later, the Sheriff said, "After this, you and I are going to have a talk about how you know what my son's bedroom looks like. But first, I need to know about that symbol. I notice you've got it on your door, there." 

"What happened to Stiles?" Derek flipped through a few more photos. They were of Stiles' bedroom, and none of them were good news. Blood splatters, a broken window, dents in drywall. He looked up and met the Sheriff's eyes. "They attacked, didn't they? They took him." 

The Sheriff nodded, once, hand tightening on the butt of his gun. "Who are they? Is this a—is this a gang thing? Because if you've gotten my son into—"

"It's not a gang thing." Making sure the Sheriff saw him, Derek tossed the phone back before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his own. Isaac was at the depot, where the connection was bad even on a good day. So he tried the next best thing.

Scott picked up after the third ring. "Derek?" he asked, sounding groggy and annoyed. "What are you doing calling me at... at _one in the morning_? I told you—"

"Stiles is missing," he said, cutting right to the one thing that might get Scott's attention. "Come out to the house, and pick up Isaac on the way. He's at the train depot." 

"What?" Scott's voice went from half-asleep to fully awake and alarmed. "What do you mean, Stiles is missing? Where—"

"Just _get here_ , and don't forget Isaac." Derek flipped the phone closed, ending the call before he had to deal with any more stupid questions. 

When he looked up, the Sheriff was still watching him. The reek of fear was still strong, but it wasn't caused by Derek. "I'm not leaving without answers." 

"Then here's your answer: there's nothing you can do." Putting on a burst of speed, Derek took one long jump and pushed the Sheriff back against his car door, one hand on the grip of his gun to keep it from being drawn. "Go home. Call the police, file a report, and wait. They can't help, but it'll cover your ass. When we find him, we'll send him home."

The Sheriff lifted his chin stubbornly. It was so much like his son that Derek wanted to growl just on principle. "You think I'm going to buy that?" he demanded. "This town's been up to its eyeballs in blood ever since you came back, and my son with it. Why the hell should I trust you?"

"Because you don't have a choice."

Air skittered unsteadily across Derek's skin as the Sheriff let out a shaky sigh. "I ought to have you brought in." 

"Probably." Estimating it to be safe, Derek slowly took his hand off the man's gun. "But you won't." 

"But I should." The Sheriff sagged backwards, using his car to keep upright. "What makes you think that you'll find him, and not the department?"

"Because we know what we're looking for."

Something snapped behind Derek, Peter's scent appearing in a sudden burst of movement and breeze. "Good evening, Sheriff. Stiles in trouble?" Peter asked blandly. "I always knew having a human involved was bad business. Your mother wouldn't listen to me either."

The Sheriff's eyes widened. "Excuse me?"

 _Wolf's out of the bag,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Stiles' murmured in the back of Derek's head. He grimaced; he didn't need any more wayward pups in his pack, especially not one that wasn't even _his_ pack. "And whose fault is it that he's involved?" he snapped at Peter instead, turning his back on the Sheriff. 

Peter shrugged and stuffed his hands in his jeans. "Not my fault he's still human, though. I offered. Is it the alphas?" 

"No, it's the tooth fairy." Wood creaked as he climbed back up the porch. "The others are on their way. We'll track the scent. They won't have gone too far; they need to be in striking distance if they're going to lure us out." 

It was clear that the Sheriff didn't know anything, but he still took a step to follow Derek. "What do you mean, _human_? If Stiles is a human, then what the hell are _you_?"

Derek met Peter's unhelpful smile. Then he turned around, deliberately letting his eyes shift to red. The Sheriff stumbled back, gun already in his hand and up. Derek looked down at it, then back up to meet the Sheriff's eyes. "Not human."

The gun didn't go back in its holster, but the Sheriff did point it at the ground instead of Derek's chest. "If you're going to search for my son, I want in." 

It was, maybe, the fastest switch from shock to acceptance Derek had ever seen. He was almost impressed. "Don't you have a report to file? Get more boots on the ground."

The Sheriff hesitated, then nodded. "Afterwards," he said. "After I file, I'm helping. Or God help me, I won't bother with official channels." Without another word, he climbed back in the car and started the engine. It was too loud in the quiet of the woods, startling, like a monster growling. Wood and leaves crunched under its wheels, and then it was gone, just an echo in the distance.

"That went splendidly," Peter chirruped, turning back to the door. "I'll draw up a search grid to get us started. You concentrate on brooding until Isaac gets here. It's what you're good at." 

Derek growled at him, but dropped down to sit on the edge of the porch, listening as the Sheriff drove away. Something more was going on. He could feel it in his gut, a foreboding that he hadn't even felt when they were fighting the kanima. 

And the worst part was that he didn't think there was anything they could do to stop it.

* * *

Boyd jerked awake when light speared through the room, blinding and painful after what felt like an eternity of near constant darkness. Curled up on the cold floor against him, Erica did the same, eyes glowing where the light reflected off of them. Neither of them bothered pretending to be asleep; they'd already learned that their heartbeats would give them away. 

They watched as the cage door was opened and something heavy tossed into the far corner, landing with a dull thud and crack of broken bones and meat. Then it was slammed shut again, hard, though whoever had been locked up didn't make a move to dive for freedom. Didn't make any move at all. Which was either smart, or a bad sign.

The alpha who'd done it—one of the twins, Boyd had never been able to tell them apart—triple checked the locks before leaving. That made him feel good. Maybe the escape attempt hadn't been successful, but it had made them nervous. Boyd had learned to live for the little things. But then the twin left, closing the door and locking the light away again. There wasn't even enough to see by when they went wolf. 

Something moved, skin scraping the cement floor. "This kidnapping thing is getting old," a familiar voice groaned. 

"Batman?" For maybe the first time since their failed escape, Erica sounded hopeful. She wiggled her way free of Boyd's arms, crawling on hands and knees to the newcomer. "That you?"

Stiles coughed, a wet, ugly sound that didn't mean anything good. "Hey, Catwoman. We've got to stop meeting like this. Boyd here, too?"

"Over here." Boyd inched up into a sitting position, keeping a careful couple of inches from the bars. He rested his chin on his knees and listened to Stiles' breathing, the slightly damp rasp that signaled something wrong with his lungs. "At least there's no electricity this time." 

"You can say that again." Another sound like movement, and Stiles hissed, heartbeat ratcheting up. "Yep, ribs definitely broken. You two been in here the whole time?"

"We were captured after escaping Gerard's." It was hard to smell anything; they'd gone two weeks without bathing, and the bucket that worked for a toilet wasn't emptied nearly often enough. Even if having a werewolf's nose meant that scents couldn't really be categorized into good or bad anymore, the smell was still thick enough to cut. But even with all that accounted for, Stiles smelled like bad things—like blood and pain and slow moving death. "How long has it been?" 

There was a pause. "Two weeks. Man, you two just don't catch any breaks, do you? Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire."

Erica laughed, and it almost sounded like a real one. "Yeah," she said. "Could be worse. Jackson could be in here with us." 

"Lizard boy might actually be useful in here." More shuffling, more movement. Boyd could almost picture Stiles testing the confines of the cage, knocking at the bars to see if they had any give, finding what he and Erica had discovered two weeks ago. It was the sort of thing he thought that Stiles might do a lot: testing things, finding boundaries and pushing them. Under any other circumstance, it would have been annoying. Just then, it was sad. 

But rather than a sound of disappointment, Stiles let out a satisfied, if pained, grunt. "These are wood," he said. "Why haven't you broken out, yet? I mean, Derek could totally bend steel if he tried."

Or maybe it _was_ annoying. "They're mountain ash," Boyd explained, tucking his feet under him to keep out of Stiles' way. "We can't even touch them."

"Hm. That's _you_ , though." Another grunt, and a grind that sounded like a broken bone rubbing against itself. "I can get my arm through."

"And what's _that_ mean?" In the dark, Erica's eyes flickered gold, and then faded, too exhausted to keep it up for long. "You have a plan?" 

"I don't know yet. Maybe? But it's something." Stiles groaned, and stumbled back, practically collapsing atop Boyd. "Might have to wait for the grand escape. I'm pretty sure my knee cap is busted."

Boyd patted around, finding Stiles' hip and following it down. There was definitely swelling, though it wasn't hot yet. He didn't know enough first aid to know if that was a good sign or not. It didn't _smell_ like infection, though. "Stay off it for a few days. They haven't taken us out much lately, so that shouldn't be hard."

Stiles made a sound that was half-cough, half-laugh. "With our luck lately? I wouldn't bet on it." 

Not sure what else to do, Boyd shifted around so they were wedged a little closer together in a way he hoped was comforting. 

He felt the movement of the air on Stiles' other side as Erica settled in. "Why did they take you?" she asked quietly. "Was it because of us?"

"No, of course not." Stiles' chest heaved with a shaky, too-wet breath, and his heart sped, just a little. "They probably just wanted to get at Scott."

In the darkness, Boyd felt safe wincing openly. He remembered the questions. Questions about Derek, about Scott and Isaac, about the hunters and the kanima. They blurred together, memories of pain making everything fuzzy and indistinct, leaving him with only the certainty that he'd answered most of them. But most of what he remembered was what he didn't answer.

It meant something. What, he wasn't sure. But _something_.

Erica seemed to be thinking the same thing. She whined softly, and Boyd felt Stiles shift a little as her weight pressed against his ribs. 

"Don't worry about me, anyway," Stiles said, in a voice that would have been full of bravado if he didn't have to spit out some of Erica's hair to say it. "I'm going to get you guys out of here. Captain America never lets his friends down."

Boyd snorted. "I thought you were Batman."

"I'm rocking the red, white, black and blue right now. Cap seemed more appropriate."

This time, Erica really did giggle. "Before Project Rebirth?" she asked, and while Boyd didn't know comics enough to be sure what that meant, Stiles made an offended noise. 

"Cap doesn't need the serum to kick ass," he insisted. Then the two of them were off on some intensely detailed comic book tangent that referenced issues and authors and that Boyd only understood every other sentence of. Closing his eyes, he let the sound wash over him, pretending he was in the subway car and the darkness was just the space behind his eyelids. Somehow, he dozed back off to the sound of something called the _Blackest Night_ being debated in-depth.

* * *

Derek crouched down by the riverbank, warm summer sun beating down on his back. It was barely a creek, but a little running water was all it took. The scent of strange alphas, blood and Stiles went in, but it didn't come out. Staying low, he paced up and down the bank a few hundred yards, looking for an exit point. When he didn't find one, he hopped over to try the other side. There were no tracks anywhere, not even where the scent was strongest, which seemed suspicious; the bank was thick with mud. Unless they spent time smoothing it out behind them, there should have been a sign. 

It was probably another dead end. He'd chased three so far, where the alphas had split up to confuse the trail. The betas were doing a more general search, but short of sheer luck they wouldn't find anything. Derek had been up and down the woods ever since the alphas had marked his door and hadn't even been able to catch a whiff. 

A hint of scent on the wind made him lift his head. Scott walked human-loud, clearly not even thinking about stealth. He smelled like omega—no pack scent, only human and anger and his own wolf. Derek resisted the urge to growl at him as he crunched up from behind. "What is it?"

"The Sheriff is here," Scott said. He stepped up to Derek, crouching down at his shoulder to peer down into the water. "He wants to help search."

Of course he did. It wasn't like finding Stiles wasn't going to be hard enough without having to babysit a human. But he remembered the Sheriff's threat too clearly. "Have him talk to Peter, get a copy of the map. I'll—"

"And he wants to talk to you," Scott added, just a little too belatedly for it to have been anything but deliberate. "He asked what you are. I think he's been going through Stiles' laptop and browser history."

 _Damn it._ "Anything _else_ you think I should know about?" Turning his head, Derek looked Scott in the eye and curled his lip. 

Of course, Scott didn't recognize the challenge for what it was. He'd been human too long, and never listened to his own instincts. "I still think we should ask Mr. Argent for help."

"No." Derek would dig his own grave and lay down in it before he asked the brother of his family's murderer for a single damned thing. "Bring the Sheriff here. I have a scent I don't want to lose."

Scott gave him a _look_ , like he couldn't believe what Derek had just said, and was judging Derek for being not quite human. Which Derek was fine with, actually. He judged Scott for not wanting to be more than just human, so it at least balanced out. Without a word, Scott rose and trotted back to where the cars were parked. For the moment he was playing nice with the pack. It wouldn't last, but at least it was one less thing to juggle.

By the time Scott came back with the Sheriff in tow, Derek had found the scent again, twenty yards up river and about five yards from the bank—whoever it was, he'd jumped from the water rather than risk leaving a clear trail. If Derek hadn't pulled that same trick playing hide-and-hunt with his cousins as a child, he might not have caught it. 

He didn't bother looking up as Scott and the Sheriff stopped in front of him. Stiles had only been missing for eight hours, but those hours hadn't been kind to the Sheriff. Deep circles formed bruises under his eyes, and he smelled like alcohol and worry. He'd dressed to tromp through the woods, in a long-sleeved shirt and sturdy boots, which was more than Derek could say for any other member of the hunting pack. There was no sign of his gun, though Derek smelled powder and metal on him. Maybe a smaller one, hidden somewhere.  
After a long moment of silence, the Sheriff cleared his throat awkwardly. "Scott tells me you're a werewolf."

A small area of dirt had been compacted. Derek sniffed at it carefully. It was thick with Stiles, much more of his scent than if they were just using something of his as a lure. Keeping his hand near the spot, Derek looked up. "Scott talks too much." 

Scott made an insulted noise, but the Sheriff smiled faintly. Then it faded away, back into the hard lines of a man with heavy thoughts on his mind. "You think my son's dead."

Derek shook his head. "If he were dead, we'd already be finding the pieces." 

Tension drained out of the Sheriff's shoulders. He shoved his hands into his pockets and clenched his jaw, lips moving. "I— What do you need me to do?" 

_Go home. Stay safe._ Derek didn't need someone else to look out for, and Stiles wouldn't forgive him for letting his dad leap headfirst into danger. But looking up at the Sheriff, it was obvious he wasn't going anywhere, and trying to make him would just make things worse. "We need information. Satellite maps, disturbances, unexplained animal carcasses. They'll leave a trail if we just keep our eyes open. Can you get that?"

The Sheriff nodded, sharp and short. Life started to come back into his eyes, a spark. "We've had a lot of reports of pets being attacked down south. A couple of people killed by rabid dogs. I can get you the incident reports." 

Which was probably illegal. Derek suspected the Sheriff didn't care. "Good." He jerked his chin toward Scott. "Take him to see Peter. He's got a wireless connection. Get whatever he tells you might be relevant." 

" _Peter_ —" Scott started to protest.

Derek cut him off with a growl. " _Do it_. I'm going to follow this—tell Peter I think they went west. There's a road that way." Before Scott could open his mouth and say something stupid, Derek turned and walked away.

* * *

It had been about two days. Or so. Probably. At least, Stiles was almost definitely kind of sure it had been two days. All he could say for sure was that it couldn't have been a week, or it would be the full moon and Stiles would really be screwed. He only had their infrequent meals to judge by, which meant it felt like forever, no matter how long it had actually been. Of course, that could have been the diet influencing him. He'd never be able to look oatmeal in the eye again. It wasn't even the tasty packet kind, but instead plain old yuck _oatmeal_. 

Still. A week. A month. A year. Whatever, it had been a carousel ride of being blind and bored and feeling his brain scatter to a thousand places as the Adderall left his system. Stiles kind of felt sorry for his cellmates. They were the ones who had to put up with him. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if he'd just gone back to his pre-medicated self. People had survived that before—even Stiles had survived people surviving that before—but withdrawals were a pain in the ass. 

Really, Erica and Boyd were way nicer than they needed to be about being puked on. Which, he was pretty sure, wasn't actually a withdrawal symptom, but it still sucked. When they all broke out, Stiles was going to have to send apology cards. If people even sent those anymore. He really wasn't sure. Probably someone sold them, but people sold pretty much anything on the internet. It would be the first thing he did after getting back online. Okay, the second thing, right after checking back in on his favorite webcomics.

The door opening dragged Stiles out of his thoughts. It was the twins again, Ethan and Aiden—or, as Stiles like to think of them, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Piercings were the name of the game; there wasn't a spot Stiles could think to pierce that they hadn't stuck metal in. Eyebrows, lips, ears—the TSA must give them hell every time they went through a metal detector. They were usually the ones on captive duty, suggesting to Stiles that they were either the youngest or the weakest. His bet went with youngest; when he was able to get a decent look at them, he'd estimated they were maybe eighteen, tops, and Stiles felt that was guessing high. _Puppies_. Which was probably best. Young meant cocky, and cocky meant they could be outsmarted.

It occurred to Stiles that _that_ could apply to him, too. He tried not to think about it too much.

Ethan stayed back by the door, while his brother approached the cage. Since the door was made of mountain ash just like the bars, he had to open it using a pulley system. Stiles had done his best to memorize it every time there was light to do so. There didn't seem to be any obvious way to use it to escape, not without managing to get the lock open first, but every little bit helped. 

Stiles had stretched out in front of the door, letting Erica and Boyd have the middle spot that was farthest from all the things that could kill them. At the time, it had seemed like a good tactical move. Keep the werewolves safe in the middle, and they'd be able to save him from anything that came at him. It probably would have helped if they'd remembered that to save him, they'd have to go _through_ him.

The door was barely open before a hand wrapped around his ankle and yanked. His bad knee screamed in pain as he was hauled out, kicking and fighting, clinging to the bars of the cage. Erica and Boyd snarled, but they couldn't grab him fast enough before he was out and the cage door slammed shut in their faces.

"Come on, little wolf," the one dragging him purred, actually purred, like every cliché villain ever. "We have some questions for you." 

Twisting, Stiles managed to slide down a little, just enough to get his arms around the bars. The twin hauling on him snarled, claws digging into his calf. Erica grabbed for his arms, then hissed when the bars burned her palms. Using his good leg, Stiles kicked out. He didn't see what he got, but something cracked, and the alpha holding him snarled in pain. 

Aiden, apparently not _entirely_ willing to let his brother be beaten up by a human, rushed forward to grab Stiles' kicking leg. Together, they pulled until Stiles' fingers were scraped raw on the edges of the slats that formed the cage bars. When they slipped, his chin smacked the concrete. Blood filled his mouth. 

Rough concrete scraped his skin raw as they dragged him off. Stiles kicked again, but they had his number and just turned with the motion, not giving him a chance at another kneecap. Behind, he heard the crack and yelp as someone charged the bars. Then the door closed, and all that was left were their howls. 

After days in near constant darkness, the light _burned_. It was white-hot against behind his eyelids, stabbing through Stiles' skull like a screwdriver. He didn't stop twisting and squirming, but it was hard to focus on making things difficult for his captors when his whole head ached. 

They didn't bother letting him stand, just kept dragging. The concrete changed to age-smooth wood, which still hurt, but in a less bloody sort of way. When he could stand to open his eyes, Stiles was able to make out rough shadows of some sort of uneven ceiling. The whole thing smelled like damp and mud and minerals.

He wasn't hauled far; the twins turned two corners, and opened three doors before dumping him in the center of a room. Stiles stayed down, eyes closed, listening. It wasn't his best sense, but it was better off than the ones he usually used. When this door shut, it sounded like heavy, thick metal. 

In the far corner, something heavy scraped the floor. It sounded like a table, or a chair—something made of heavy wood, with legs. Another thing rustled. It could have been anything.

Maybe listening wasn't going to do him much good after all. 

"Hello, little wolf," a woman said, right above him. 

Startled, Stiles rolled to his feet. Or tried to, anyway. He barely made it upright before his bad knee reminded him of exactly why it was called _his bad knee_. His other leg was holding, but made its complaints about the claw marks Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum had left in it known. Blood oozed down his calf, but he couldn't tell how much. He just had to hope that it wasn't more than he could bear to lose. He was very attached to his bodily fluids.

Stiles stopped the mental inventory there. It could only get more depressing as it moved upward. 

The woman—who was still more of a person-shaped blur than anything else—stayed crouched in front of him. From what he could tell, she had brown hair—maybe red, it was hard to be certain. She could have been the woman who'd been in the kidnapping party, but maybe not.

 _How many alphas are there?_ Stiles wondered, watching as the dark twin blurs settled back against the wall. Their posture was very much that of people about to see a damned good show. 

Finally, after what was probably a good five minutes of just staring, the woman spoke again. "Have you been crying? Why?"

Embarrassment flushed Stiles' cheeks hot. Anger followed fast on its heels. _They_ did this to him, to Erica and Boyd, and then wondered why he'd been crying. He still scrubbed his cheeks, but ended it with a hard glare. "Are you real? Yeah, I've been crying."

She laughed, white teeth shining even in the blur of too much light. "Honest. I like that. And are you going to play, little wolf?"

"Why do you people _call_ me that?" Stiles blurted out. It was the first thing that popped into his head, and probably the least important, but it kept him from thinking too hard about what _play_ was to a sadistic alpha werewolf. 

"It's a compliment, of sorts."

Stiles swallowed. As his vision cleared, he was able to make out red eyes and the ever-present leather jacket of the werewolf club card holders. _Alphas, alphas everywhere..._ "I'm human. _Homo sapiens._ Distinctly lacking in wolfitude. It's a thing." 

"Are you? Is it?" She turned her head sideways, like a dog listening for something far off. Like Scott sometimes did after getting the bite. A gold earring glittered against her hair. "Ah, species, you mean. A crutch of choice for some. But not for you, I think. Which is why you're here." 

"Is it?" Stiles flexed his legs, silently asking if they were ready to run. The answer was a distinctly resounding _no_. He sternly told them to try anyway. "What do you want from me?"

Claws scratched at the floor. It was a cold, shivery sound that hit hard at the portion of Stiles' brain that still remembered when humans were better known as dinner to most species. "We want answers, little wolf. You see, the betas can't give them. They're still tied to Hale. But you're not, are you?" Slowly, she started edging around him, never rising from all fours. "Humans don't work that way." 

Stiles turned to try and keep her in sight. "And if I don't know the answers you want?"

Her smile matched the sound of her claws. "Then we'll just have to find another toy after we're done with you." 

She tensed. It was the only warning he got before she blurred into motion. Stiles dived to the side a second too late. Four claws raked across his ribs, and something knocked his bad leg. Crying out, he went down, and then another blow had him falling back. Before he knew it, she had him pinned, knees planted on either side of his ribs. 

"Let's start, shall we?" Five sharp points touched the center of his chest as she leaned over him, red eyes glowing. "My name is Kali. And _you_ are going to tell me all about Derek Hale."

* * *

It had been maybe three hours, and Stiles wasn't back yet. 

Erica watched the direction she thought the door was in, curled up, feet flat against the floor and ready to spring. Beside her, Boyd was doing the same. More subtly, but she could feel the tension in his body against her shoulder, hear his carefully controlled breathing. They were both tired, but sleep wouldn't be happening. Every now and then, she let out a soft, questioning howl. Which was stupid, she knew it was stupid, but she couldn't stop herself. Stiles couldn't answer, even if he heard them. He wasn't a wolf. But it was something to do, to howl and then strain to hear a response. Better than sitting in the dark and praying.

When the light under the door flicked on, they both held still. One of the twins pushed open the door, something heavy hanging over his shoulder. The other twin stayed back by the door, again, silhouetted by the light as his brother carried what had to be Stiles in. 

Erica whimpered and pressed forward until the slats burned her hands. A flash of red eyes and teeth made her flinch away, pushing back against Boyd's reassuring presence. She pulled her lips back in a growl, eyes turning to gold, but didn't move when the kennel was opened. 

Up close, it was easy to see that someone had done a number on the alpha's face; a deep cut ran down his forehead and cheek, barely having missed his eye, and his blond hair was matted down with blood. It was healing rapidly, which meant that Stiles had probably been the one to do it, rather than another alpha.

A feeling like victory curled through her, a warm and comforting lie. "Looking pretty there," Erica gloated, knowing that he could see her trembling. It didn't matter. _One_ of them had landed a blow. "What, you couldn't take one little human?" 

He glared at her, baring his teeth. "You'll get to see what I can _take_ next, don't worry." With a shrug, he let his burden drop. 

Stiles dropped with a heavy thud, sprawled on the concrete floor like a discarded ragdoll. His arm was lying wrong, and deep red marks were already developing into bruises along his back where the light hit. The stench of blood rolled off of him, overpowering even the musty smell of unwashed bodies. He didn't move—not a curse or a twitch. 

Erica's stomach dropped. _No._

"Shame he doesn't heal, isn't it?" The alpha-twin smirked as he double-checked the locks. "Humans break so easy."

And then he just walked away. 

As soon as the lights were out again, she felt Boyd move. He rushed past her to Stiles. Erica followed slowly, forcing every step until her fingertips touched a puddle of still-warm blood, and then an arm. She followed it up, elbow to shoulder to chest. White noise rang in her ears and she couldn't stop _shaking_ , fine little tremors that wracked her from head to toe. 

Bowing her head, Erica pressed her ear to Stiles' chest. Faintly, she heard a heartbeat. 

Suddenly, she could breathe again. 

Blood smeared across her cheek as she lifted her head, making her hair cling to it damply. "What do we do?" 

"Most of the bleeding's stopped, but I think his arm is out of joint. We should set it while he's asleep," Boyd said, calm and assured and everything she'd started to fall a little in love with before they'd found themselves playing professional captives. "It's going to hurt him, but if we don't it'll be worse."

Erica swallowed, one hand still pressed to Stiles' chest. Now that she'd calmed down a little, she could feel him breathing. It was shallow, but it didn't have that awful wet sound that they'd worried was a punctured lung. "You know," she said, voice catching on a breath. "Not too long ago, I would have loved to see him hurt. I hated him a little." 

Boyd's hand found hers in the darkness, fingers lacing through hers, tacky with cooling blood. "We're in this together." 

"Yeah," she nodded, even though there was no way he could see her. "Yeah."

* * *

Stiles curled up with Boyd and Erica, matching their breathing. Everything hurt, from his shoulder to his toes, and all the places in between. He'd learned his lesson about staying too close to the door, so they were tucked as far back as they could get. It wouldn't save them in a crunch, but at least it was something. It definitely made the werewolves happier, during those little slivers of breathing room that they had. At that point Stiles would accept anything that did that. 

Erica snuffled in her sleep and tucked closer under Stiles' chin, knee bumping his. He hissed between his teeth, but ran his hand down her back soothingly. Between Erica at his front and Boyd at his back, at least he never really lacked for warmth, or for human companionship. Which was good news; Stiles was pretty sure he'd have become like Tom Hanks in Castaway in record time if he'd been locked up alone. Like Tom Hanks but with less beard—Boyd had developed a strong fuzz across his jaw and the top of his head from not being able to shave. Stiles had managed a little bit of peach fuzz on his chin and upper lip. Even Erica had leg hair in lieu of a beard, which she seemed to enjoy scratching him with and which Stiles had totally forgotten was a thing girls did when they couldn't get to a razor. 

It was really the last indignity, when his companions both managed to be manlier in captivity than he was. 

The silence was heavy enough that Stiles heard a creak and a pair of footsteps before the door opened, spilling light into their room. Against him, Erica and Boyd had woken up. He could feel their growls vibrating against his skin, sub-auditory rumbles that tickled deep in his ears, one of those sensations that made you want to clear your throat to make it stop. Their claws poked him, careful not to cut open new and exciting parts of his body. It still made it abundantly clear that they knew what was coming as well as he did. 

"The human this time. This doesn't have to be hard," one of the twins said, unlocking the cage door and lifting up the door with the pulley. Tweedle Dee—Ethan?— stayed back by the door, as usual, blocking it in case of an escape attempt. Which was laughable, really. Stiles couldn't move fast enough to get past one of them, much less two. 

Stiles curled his legs up against his chest, leaning back into his cage-mates. "Why change now, though?" 

The alpha at the cage snarled and darted in, grabbing the back of his neck, and yanking. Claws dug into his shoulders, cutting across his chin and neck. Stiles struggled, twisting, reaching up to try and get a thumb in an eye socket. Erica and Boyd tried to hold him in, but he slipped through their grip and the cage door slammed shut. That didn't stop Stiles from wedging his arm between the wooden slats of the cage and kicking out to try and get himself free. 

It was a lost cause from the start. They'd learned from the other times he'd fought them, bundling his legs together so his kicks didn't have any force and relying on their strength to force him along. His already aching joints wrenched when the alphas just _yanked_ , pulling him free by sheer force. As soon as he hit the concrete again, Ethan was there, picking him up by the wrists while Aiden took his ankles, carting him out into the light. 

Every part of Stiles' abused muscles and bones hurt at the weight being put on them. Better than being dragged, but not by much. 

The twins weren't in sync enough to keep him from bouncing all over the place, which made his head and stomach swish with a horrible sort of nausea. He'd been dragged out enough times that he'd gotten the hang of keeping his eyes squinched closed, of not looking up at the lights. It still hurt, but it wasn't the same sort of blinding ache as the first time, and it seemed to help with his stomach.

Stiles counted steps, waiting for the first turn. But instead of going left, they went straight, then up a set of stairs. His head angled down on the climb, choking him as he tried not to vomit. From there the path meandered, doors closing and opening. Once he thought he smelled fresh air mixed with rank old meat, but it vanished before it could make his stomach worse. 

When they finally sat him down, it came surprisingly gently, lowering him to the ground and then stepping away. Stiles stayed down, taking deep breaths to calm his twisting stomach. Behind him, a door closed. 

His first hint that someone was there was when a hand pressed to his forehead. The worst of the pain and nausea faded, leaving only a faint ache behind. 

"Is that better?" 

Swallowing, Stiles opened his eyes. A man was kneeling over him; black lines ran up his forearms, writhing under faded tattoos. Stiles tried to make sense of them, but they were mostly symbols—stark lines and celtic knots, swirls running together to tie it all into a whole all the way up until the ink vanished under the sleeves of his plain white t-shirt. 

"Well?" the man asked, raising his eyebrows and causing his forehead to crinkle under a flop of slightly messy blond hair. His eyes weren't red, but Stiles had no doubt that he was an alpha. Maybe _the_ alpha. It wasn't just that he was older, but he was _collected_. There was a casual control there that even Derek didn't have. The others—Marcus and Locke, the twins, especially Kali—all vibrated like violence was the only language they knew. This man could have passed as human. 

Stiles nodded and pushed up, shuffling backwards to put space between them. Surprise of all surprises, the alpha let him, staying squatted down. "Who are you?" 

"Deucalion." He flashed a smile, quick and charming, and rose up from his crouch, offering a hand. "Can you stand, or do you need help?" 

A shiver ran down Stiles at the thought of this alpha, of _Deucalion_ , laying his hands on him. He shook his head, carefully rolling over and pushing himself upright. He hadn't had a chance to stand on his own two feet without having them immediately knocked out from under him in a long time. It made his legs feel funny, stiff almost. Whatever Deucalion had done to help with the pain was still working; even when he moved his arm and his knee, the throbs were only muffled twinges. 

Deucalion didn't seem to be in any rush, letting him look around. The room was dimly lit, and much smaller than the one he was used to, though still brick and motor chic like everything else. A table had been set up with two chairs, a plastic pitcher of what looked like water and some sort of covered casserole dish. 

They were alone. That was either good or really, really bad.

"What do you want?" Stiles finally asked. His throat felt tight and rough, even though it was probably one of the parts of him that had taken the least damage. "What, Kali got bored with throwing around the human?"

The corner of Deucalion's mouth twitched up, deepening his smile lines. He hooked his hand around Stiles' arm, tugging him gently enough that it was more of a suggestion than anything else. "Kali could never get bored with that. No, I wanted to speak with you personally, seeing as we might not have a chance later. Would you like something to eat?"

The offer scattered Stiles' concentration. "To eat?" he repeated, allowing himself to be guided over to one of the seats. 

"Plain chicken and unbuttered toast," Deucalion said, actually sounding apologetic. "Simple fare, but I thought perhaps it would be best all things considered." 

His mouth watered, but Stiles forced himself to turn his head. Oatmeal was terrible, but he wasn't starving, and he wasn't going to buy the good cop, bad cop trick. "I'll pass, thanks."

Deucalion chuckled, a low burr that crawled up his spine with warm fingers. Just as gentle as before, he nudged Stiles into the chair, then took the one across. "They said that you were stubborn." He picked over the items on the table, pouring water and loading a plate that he set in front of Stiles anyway. "In case you change your mind." 

Stiles shrugged, keeping his eyes focused on one of the walls rather than Deucalion or the food. _Stubborn_. He didn't feel stubborn, hadn't felt it when Kali had her claws punched into his legs, his arms, where they wouldn't do much damage but did cause a lot of pain. His heart was beating like it might climb right out of his chest and take flight, and he was sure every werewolf for a mile could hear it, but that didn't mean he had to _show_ it. "You didn't bring me in here for tea time. Why play nice?"

In the corner of his eye, he saw Deucalion lace his fingers together, a hint of red as his eyes started to glow. "I can play nicer, if you like," he purred. 

If the laugh had been bad, _that_ went straight to Stiles' gut. He swallowed. "No thanks. Just tell me what you— what you brought me here for."

From the way Deucalion snorted, he didn't believe it, but the hint of red left his eyes. He leaned back and crossed his leg over a knee, affecting casualness. "Information. What else? Tell me about Derek Hale."

 _Question number one, repeat seven hundred and sixty nine,_ Stiles thought bitterly. "Alpha werewolf, tragic past, that sort of thing. Not much to tell."

Claws flashed out, digging into Deucalion's jeans for a second before they were gone and it was plain fingertips instead. It might have been a trick of the light and his still-uncertain vision. Stiles didn't think so, though. "Not much to tell? For one who made a kanima?" Stiles jerked around in spite of himself, and Deucalion smiled. "Yes, I know about that. And I know about the alpha before that. A powerful young man, that much is evident. All I want to know is what sort of power."

" _Why_?" The question burst out, and Stiles couldn't be bothered to care. His head spun, suddenly light, blood pounding in his temples. "Why do you care what kind of person he is? The kanima's gone and it was an accident in the first place—what does it _matter_?"

"Gone?" A disappointed frown settled over Deucalion's face. "That's unfortunate." He watched Stiles for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter. He'll still be a strong addition to my pack."

Stiles sputtered, flailing back in his chair. "Your _pack_? Derek—" He set his jaw, glaring. Derek had done a lot of things, screwed up in a lot of ways, but Stiles would never believe he'd join a team of murdering psychopaths. "You want to know what kind of person Derek is? Alright, I'll tell you." Slapping his hands against the thin metal arms of the chair, Stiles leaned forward. "He's a jerk and a bully, but he's a good person too. If you think he'd ever join your little group, you're wrong." 

Deucalion smiled, eyes flicking down over Stiles. "Maybe. But you never know. It's amazing what some people will do with the right... pressure. You, for example."

All the indignant anger drained out of Stiles in a flash. "Me?" 

"You." Deucalion's legs uncrossed, foot dropping to the floor with a flat _thud_. He rose from his chair, circling around the table. The points of his claws dragged up Stiles' arm and around his bare shoulders as he paced behind him. "What would you do to survive?"

"You're going to kill me." The words scratched Stiles' throat. They didn't sound real. He'd known that the chances of him getting out alive were short, but he hadn't let himself think about it. "You think Derek will join you if you kill me? We might not be buddies, but—" Stiles' voice cut out when the claws on his shoulder squeezed, biting in. Little drops of blood slid down his chest. 

When Deucalion pulled his claws free, the very tips of them were still red, looking like they'd been dipped in paint. "No," he answered, stretching out his fingers to admire his work. "I expect not. Which is why I'm not going to do it. Your friends are."

A creeping, bowel-knotting terror crawled up through Stiles' stomach into his chest. "They wouldn't," he choke, gritting his teeth against the new pain. 

"The full moon is coming. It's a shame Hale didn't teach them control." Leaning over Stiles' shoulder, he picked up the fork and gently placed it in his hand. His breath washed over Stiles' ear, warm and smelling faintly of spiced meat. "Eat up, little wolf, and think very hard on your choices. We can always use a nice, stubborn beta around. And I suspect it would be preferable to the alternative."

* * *

Randy's watch ticked past midnight with a dour little chime.

He sat in his personal SUV with the bright yellow overhead light on, staring down at the map spread across the steering wheel. Peter—Peter Hale, who apparently was neither as catatonic nor as missing as expected—had printed out for him over the satellite maps he'd dug up out of county records. It wasn't the first search grid he'd seen in his career, but it was the first where the subject was his son. Half of it was filled in with gray pencil work: fully searched, no sign of Stiles or his kidnappers. Another quarter had Xs through the squares, indicating high local activity and a low chance of finding Stiles. The rest of it was still wide open. Beacon Hills had too much wilderness to make a search and rescue easy. 

It had been five days, and the best they could say is that Stiles wasn't in the town. That left a whole lot of wilderness where he could be, though, and not nearly enough bodies to search it.

Derek had been right, damn it. The official search team hadn't turned up a thing. He got daily calls, but it was getting more and more obvious that Stiles had already been unofficially moved from _alive_ to _likely deceased_. 

He wasn't the only one. Three other people had gone missing, and one of them had turned up as a body. _Animal attack_ , the report said. State Wildlife reps were all over it, saying the spike of activity in Beacon Hills could be directly tied to global warming and suburbanization. 

_Ha._

On any other case, Randy might have been able to admit the long odds. A week missing after a violent abduction almost never ended well. That was for movies, not real life. Every hour Stiles was gone dropped the odds of his safe return exponentially, especially with the other disappearances. But it was his _son_. He'd do anything to get his boy back. 

And that was why he'd had to hand it over. Even if Deputy Schuller didn't know his ass from a teacup, it looked good on paper. Family leave at least let him spend time with his boots on the ground. 

Outside his car, footsteps crunched in the leaves. Deliberately, he could only assume. Derek and his friends—he refused to think of them as a pack; they were _people_ , not animals—were uncannily quiet when they wanted to be. Randy finished writing up his notes in the margins before looking up. 

Scott stood awkwardly just beyond the car door, head ducked a little, eyes catching the moonlight and bouncing back in unnatural ways. He was, maybe, the last person Randy would have pegged as a werewolf, but that just showed how much of the past year he'd missed. "Hey, Mr. Stilinski. We think we found something—"

He didn't get to finish before Randy was out of the car. "Where?" His heart jumped in his throat, a heavy _lub-dub_ that almost made him think Stiles might have been right about the burgers. Just like every thought of his boy, it hit him right in the gut that Stiles might not be able give him hell for his diet ever again. "Where _is he_ , Scott?" 

"Not here!" Hurriedly, Scott threw up his hands and stepped in front of Randy, bodily blocking his path. "He's not—we found some scents that aren't us, and Peter says there's something weird in that area. We're following the trail, but it might be old. And anyway, that's not why I'm here."

"Then why are you here, Scott?" Randy waited expectantly, while Scott shuffled and hemmed and hawed. He loved the kid like a second son, but he had a way of dancing around the point. 

Scott took a deep breath. It was a little awe inspiring to see. He breathed like he was bracing himself to try for the Mariana Trench. "Tomorrow'sthefullmoonandDerekthinksyoushouldstayhome." 

Long experience with a teenage son who occasionally thought speed was an alternative to outright lying made it at least possible for Randy to parse that. "No."

"But Mr.—"

"I said _no_." Randy crossed his arms. "The way I see it, this can go two ways. Either you and the others aren't under control and will need to be locked up—"

"We're under control!"

"— _or_ you'll be fine. Either way, I won't be in any danger."

With only the moonlight and the faint light from the car, it was hard to see, but Randy was almost certain Scott made a face. "I can't stop you, can I?"

"No. You can't." Reaching into the car, Randy flipped off the lights and double-checked to make sure it was locked before turning back to Scott. "Show me the lead."

* * *

Scott wasn't a happy werewolf. 

They tromped through the forest, taking advantage of the fading daylight to follow the lead Derek had found yesterday. The trail was miles and miles outside of Beacon Hill County, where none of them would have thought to start looking. But Derek had found a tire track, and that lead to a road. They'd only had to follow it to find the spot where Stiles' scent reappeared again and then keep walking.

Werewolf bad guys using cars. None of them had thought of that. Not even Derek, who was as close to a bad guy as they had. 

Isaac walked about twenty feet away, going from tree to tree just like Scott was, making sure there weren't any signs of the alphas splitting off. It seemed like maybe they thought they were safe, though. The few times Scott found a scent that broke from the group, it always went back, and the Stiles-blood-fear scent never went far. So mostly there was walking, and sniffing, and a slow-growing frustration that couldn't entirely be blamed on the moon. The hunt for Stiles had gone on for too long, and Derek's opinion that they'd have found the pieces of him if he were dead was a lot less reassuring than Derek seemed to think. 

Almost as bad as his growing certainty that Stiles was probably dead was that the Sheriff was out there with them. On most other days, Scott would have been fairly certain he could protect him, but the moon would be rising in a few hours. Every other thought he had was angry, and the ones that weren't were all about missing Allison. If the worst happened, he couldn't be sure he would be able to focus on protecting the Sheriff. He didn't think he could look Stiles in the eye, in this life or the afterlife, and tell him that he'd let his father get killed. 

Up ahead, Derek crouched down in the dirt. The Sheriff was beside him so fast he could have been mistaken as a werewolf. Peter appeared a second later, peering over the Sheriff's shoulder at whatever Derek had found. 

Leaves crunched, and Isaac appeared at Scott's side. His eyes had gone gold, and there was more than a hint of fang in his mouth. "I don't like this," he murmured. "It feels wrong."

"That's because we're in someone else's territory," Derek said up ahead of them. Brushing off his knees and hands, he stood. He was in more control than Isaac, but his eyes had a thin ring of red around them. "You'll be fine. Just try and stay focused on the reason we're here."

"Why don't I feel it, though?" Scott looked around. They weren't woods he was familiar with. There was a rabbit somewhere out there that he wanted to sniff out, and somewhere he could hear a car engine, but they were just things. It wasn't _wrong_. "I've never been here before, either." 

"Omegas don't have territory."

Immediately, Scott scowled. "I have a pack."

"Not one of wolves," Peter smirked. Actually, Peter's facial hair smirked, and the rest of his face just went along with it. It was creepy in the way that only someone who was probably a legitimate zombie could be. Stiles' dad took one smooth step away from him, which just showed that intelligence ran in the family. Which Scott already knew, really. No one could be Stiles' _dad_ and not be super smart. 

"Peter," Derek growled. "Stop trying to pick a fight."

"He could have had a pack," Peter said, rather than shutting up, and what was Scott just thinking about intelligence—or the lack of it—running in families? "If he'd made better choices."

"I have Stiles!" Scott snapped back before his brain caught up with his mouth. Everyone went still. A lump locked up in his throat. Even Peter was looking at him with pity. Beside him, Isaac bumped their shoulders together, a silent _it's okay_ that on any other day might have been honest. But it wasn't okay. And it wouldn't be okay again until they found Stiles.

Scott bumped Isaac back— _thanks_ —and stepped forward, past the adults and deeper along the trail. "Come on. The scent goes this way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At one point, Stiles is taken where it's heavily implied that he's physically assaulted by the alphas in order to get information. The assault itself isn't shown.


	3. the End of Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With great love to RatherasStory for her beta work, and to another score of people for twisting my arms until this was better. The explicit outtake from this chapter, Skin Deep, can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/856495).
> 
> Enjoy. ♥

_It's a shame Hale didn't teach them control._

Stiles tried not to think about the implications of that. _Tried_ being the key word. It circled around in his head, along with a count down. He'd lost track of the days, but it hadn't been that long until the full moon when he'd been captured. A week, maybe. Scott had planned to spend it with him in the woods, where Stiles would be able to climb a tree if it all went horribly, horribly wrong. 

At the far corner, Erica and Boyd were huddled up together, whispering. They hadn't asked questions when he'd scooted away from them to get some thinking done. One of Erica's legs was stretched out, her bare toes touching his back, curled into the waistband. Boyd wasn't as touchy-feely; he only reached out now and then to brush against Stiles, like he needed to make sure he was still there. It was... nice. Comfortable, as much as anything could be. Friends in adversity. 

Of course, his new friends might also become the instruments of his brutal and painful death. Not exactly the best friendship bracelet in the world. 

They'd had eleven meals. Was that a twice a day, or three times? More, or less? It didn't feel like three times a day, but that could have been malnutrition. Oatmeal couldn't replace a normal diet. Finstock and his Pyramid of Delicious Things had been clear on that. So it could have been three meals a day. 

Either way, when the full moon finally happened, they all needed to be on the other side of the bars. If it was a choice between dying and being a beta werewolf for a bunch of sadists, he knew which one he'd pick. Admitting it was going to take some time, though. Time he wasn't sure they had. 

But there had to be another way. He wasn't going to go down without a fight, wasn't going to look his mother in the eye and say _I didn't even try_. Stilinski men were better than that. 

Boyd's foot bounced against his hip, harder than usual. "Your heartbeat just went up."

Taking a deep breath, Stiles forced himself to calm down. It wasn't easy. "I'm good. Just— thinking." A plan tickled at the edge of his thoughts, darting close and then sliding away. Something about the lock—it was a giant old thing, made to withstand bolt cutters from sheer size rather than through any tricky technology. The wolves couldn't get at it, but if he could just...

It was almost a sick sort of relief when the light came back, bringing with it a promise of the usual round of pain and horror—or worse, Deucalion. Erica had gone last, and Boyd before her, which—if Stiles guessed their routine right—meant that he was up. He almost had a plan patched together out of bits and pieces of thought, but it needed something, and he thought he knew where to get it. 

As soon as the door opened, Erica and Boyd were curled back around him, trapping him between their bodies. Erica's breasts pressed against him from one side and Boyd's hips from the other, and if Stiles hadn't been so tired and hurt he would have been embarrassed. 

"It's okay, guys." Moving as carefully as he could to avoid jostling any of his numerous injuries more than was absolutely unavoidable, Stiles sat up. Erica's arms stayed around his chest long enough that she lifted up a few inches with him before giving up the fight. Boyd's claws clenched in what was left of his pajama pants.

Ethan, who Stiles was starting to recognize by his near-Derek levels of scowl, unlocked the door of the cage. "You coming, little wolf?" he asked, voice just the wrong side of smarm. The nickname didn't sound quite right. The way Kali said it had _weight_ ; Ethan was just echoing. "We got something special today. Don't want to keep him waiting, do you?"

If there'd been any doubt what was coming, that killed it. "Can't do that, can we?" It was nearly as much a fight against Erica and Boyd as it was his own injuries to get free. Movement _hurt_. All of the bruises and strained muscles had taken the forced inactivity as an excuse to cramp up. Even his ribs got in on the act, and they didn't have nearly as much muscle as his legs. "I'm coming, I'm coming, hold your horses." 

"I had a horse once," Aiden commented from the door. It was maybe the first thing Stiles had ever heard him say. "It was delicious." 

"Someone didn't read Black Beauty in fourth grade," Stiles grumbled, finally crawling over Boyd's legs and reaching the door. He paused just before crawling out, collecting his feet under him, even though knee and hip both protested the move.

This was going to hurt. 

As quickly as he could, Stiles sprang forward, out of the cage door and toward the light. One of the twins grabbed him around the waist. He twisted rather than dropped, grabbing a handful of box-blond hair and yanking. His other hand went for the eyes, fingers wrapping around the row of eyebrow piercings and yanking. 

The alpha howled in pain and _tossed_ , throwing him back through the cage door. Stiles crashed back, slamming into one of the wolves, and then again continuing on. Sparks flared behind his eyes as the back of his head cracked intro the floor. Boyd growled, and there was a sound of fighting—teeth snapping, the rip of claws against skin. Then the cage door was slamming shut again. 

When Stiles opened his eyes, the light from the door was already gone. His stomach twisted and his head was one giant ball of pain. _Concussion_ he guessed, turning his head to press a cheek against the cool concrete. "That moderately blew." 

"What were you _thinking_?" Erica demanded, voice sliding into the low, silky rumble of an imminent wolf-out. In the dark, her eyes were two dimly glowing points of gold. "You're lucky they didn't kill you!"

"Believe me, I know. Wouldn't have if it weren't necessary." Slowly, just in case the nausea turned into something more than a swishy feeling in his middle, Stiles forced himself to sit up. "And anyway, it worked, so stop complaining."

"What worked?" Boyd asked. He was still near the door, Stiles thought, but unlike Erica he hadn't gone for the full glowy-eyes bit yet. "What did you get?"

Stiles unclenched his fist, rolling his fingers across his palm. In it, the little silver barbell rolled freely, still covered in blood where he'd ripped it from Tweedle Dum's face, but perfect for his needs. "I got us a key out of here."

* * *

"I keep telling you, I'm a Sheriff's son. No one knows how to break the law like a cop." 

"I didn't say you couldn't." Boyd listened to the scrape and click as Stiles work at the lock, trusting the darkness to hide his expression of doubt. The eyebrow ring hadn't seemed very long, and he had his doubts about Stiles' self-declared genius at lock-picking. It was one thing to play with his father's handcuffs. It was something completely different to be working at a padlock, backwards, in the dark, with at least on broken finger. 

On the other hand, the worst that could happen was Stiles would fail, and they'd be right back where they started. It was a good bargain.

"Well, _I_ think Stiles can do it." Erica pressed up against Boyd's back, hooking her chin over his shoulder and her arms around his waist. Her cheek pressed against the back of his jaw, rubbing against the scattered stubble there. "Have some faith, Boyd." 

"Maybe you have faith enough for us both." Boyd found her hand where it pressed against his stomach and laced their fingers together. It made her sigh against him, a soft, easy sound. He relaxed back into her a little. 

At least they weren't alone. He could take anything the alphas threw at him, but if he'd had to do it alone he would have gone mad in the first week. 

"I can hear you two being lovey-dovey," Stiles said. "Please stop. I haven't eaten enough that I want to throw it back up."

"Jealous," Erica purred, turning her head to smack a loud kiss to Boyd's cheek.

"Not jealous," Stiles insisted, voice falling to something low and intense. "Not jealous at all. Just..." The sounds of metal paused, and then there was a loud _click_. "Didn't want you two to miss our escape for your hanky-panky." 

"You have it?" Before he really knew what he was doing, Boyd scrambled forward, Erica close behind. He bumped into Stiles' back. "Really?" 

Stiles knocked forward with a little _oof_ , swaying gently on his knees. "Really. I've got the door. All those deathly allergic to this stuff go first."

Carefully, Boyd reached forward, groping for the exit. His fingertips sizzled as they brushed the mountain ash accidentally, but a few inches to the left there was nothing but blessedly free space. Minding the wood, he crawled out, then reached back to pull Erica. Then Stiles followed, letting the kennel door shut slowly, so it didn't make noise.

"Come on, we've got to hurry." Stiles cupped the back of Boyd's neck briefly, then he limped past him toward the door. Thinking about the injuries he was walking on made Boyd wince, but if Stiles didn't feel like he needed to ask for help, Boyd wasn't going to insult him by offering. "If they catch us, we're dead."

"Tell me about it," Erica muttered. Her hand brushed Boyd's, but they didn't grab ahold. They'd need them free. 

The door to their room wasn't locked. Somehow, it wasn't a surprise. Why bother locking the door when you thought your toys were already trapped safe in their toybox? Beyond their room was another, a smaller room that smelled like clean clothes and soap and water. A laundry room, Boyd was willing to bet. Even alpha werewolves needed to scrub their undies now and then. 

Beyond the probable laundry room was a hallway and, with any luck, freedom.

They eased down the hall at a slow pace, Boyd and Erica staying close to Stiles. It had some sort of smooth wood floor that smelled like varnish and lemon and wax, and the doors that they passed every now and then were more of the same. The ceiling, though, that was weird. Lights were strung up on the rough brick walls, leaving it in deep shadow, but it had a feeling of space—uneven and maybe bumpy, but high and airy. But the hallway was straight, and the electricity seemed to be running smoothly.

The height of the ceiling was probably the only thing keeping him from feeling more trapped than he was. He couldn't be certain, not without being able to see, but there was a smell of rock and moss and damp above them, and if he had to guess he'd say they were underground. Just the thought made him twitchy. He'd never been one for tightly enclosed spaces; even Derek's subway car hideout had bothered him. But as long as he couldn't see the ceiling, he couldn't be sure. And that helped.

A split in the hall made them pause, all three of them hanging back to eye it warily. Boyd pressed into Stiles' shoulder, nostrils flaring. He was almost positive that the right hand path was the one that they had been dragged down the last few days. It smelled like fear and pain, and there was a thick trail of blood that he thought he remembered leaving after the last time. "Left."

"Read my mind, why don't you?" Stiles answered. A split in his lip had been worried open again by his teeth, tinting the air with the copper thread of fresh blood. "I remember this part of the route. The rest... not so much."

"I don't like this," Erica muttered, a low growl making the words roll. She'd used a ripped piece of cloth to tie her hair back from her face. It made her eyes stand out, startling gold against smudges of dirt and blood. "Where _are_ they? Why wasn't someone watching the door?"

"Don't jinx it!" Stiles hissed, swatting at her shoulder. "Never, ever ask important questions. You can think them, but don't voice over."

"This isn't a horror movie, Stiles," Boyd snapped as softly as he could. Step by slow step, he crawled forward, nose to the air to smell for danger. He felt sluggish, slow, but still contradictorily restless. There was a buzzing under his skin that he wanted to scratch at until it bled free. Forced inactivity hadn't done him any favors. "It doesn't work that way." 

Silence. When Boyd glanced back, Stiles' expression was somewhere between laughter and a horrified sort of realization. When he realized Boyd was looking, he shrugged his uninjured shoulder and said, "If this isn't a horror movie, then I don't know what is." 

There really wasn't a way to argue that. 

Once Boyd gave the all-clear, Stiles took the lead again, limping along like a wounded deer. It was probably stupid. Stiles was the human, and injured besides; he should have been in the center, where Erica and Boyd could protect him. But he was the one to pick their directions when there was a choice, the one to throw his arm out to stop them when a noise came from somewhere else in the complex. Boyd concentrated on sniffing the air for hints of where the alphas had gone, while Erica watched their backs.

Stiles' slow pace worried at Boyd's nerves. He was a mass of bruises and claw marks, one eye nearly crusted shut, knee still swollen far too large, blood staining the tattered remains of his pajama bottoms. Boyd should have accepted that, should have _understood_. Instead, he had to hold himself back from just scooping Stiles up and carting him off. They shouldn't rush _anyway_ ; it would just make noise that would get them caught. But his claws still flexed nervously. He wanted to _run_ , fast and as far away from the alphas as he could, and not stop running until he was _safe_.

The place was a warren. They passed multiple other hallways, open doors to dark rooms that smelled like gunpowder and old blood, and even a few sets of stairs. Mostly the stairs led up, but one set led down, down, _down_ , to something that reeked like slow, painful death. Even Stiles' nose wrinkled. 

They hurried past there probably faster than they should have. 

Three levels up and what felt like a million miles away, Boyd finally, _finally_ caught a thread of fresh air. It could have been a crack in the ceiling, it could have been an open window, but he didn't care. He needed it, needed not to be trapped, needed to run until his lungs ached and he was far away from everything in the world that could hurt him. Boyd touched Stiles' shoulder from behind to tug him in the direction of the scent. His claws pressed into pale, freckle-marked skin, leaving behind pale lines that quickly flushed red. 

_When did that happen?_ Boyd stared at his own hand in betrayal. His control wasn't perfect—he wasn't _Derek_ —but it didn't just _happen_. Something was pulling at him, a heat, a _spark_ crawling across his skin. And suddenly he was angry, _so_ angry at everything and nothing and and and—

Behind them, Erica growled.

Stiles went still. Quiet. Like a rabbit scenting a predator and desperately trying not to be noticed. His heartbeat spiked like it hadn't since he stopped smelling like meds.

" _Shit_ ," he breathed. "Too late." 

He ran. Boyd chased, claws digging into the floor and leaving deep runnels as he leaped. Something bumped him from the side—wolf-scent, _pack_ scent. It knocked him off balance, let Stiles slip between his claws with only a little blood spilled. Boyd snarled, swiping at the other wolf. She—Erica, he remembered that name, _Erica_ —bared her fangs and twisted around him, laying him out on the ground with a hip-bump-twist. A pounce followed, before he could roll to his feet. She snapped at his throat, claws raking his arms and— 

Boyd went still. His chin tilted up, showing her his throat and belly. Erica won, she was stronger, she was—

She sniffed his throat, giving him a dismissive nip before leaving him be. _Next_ time, she wouldn't catch him distracted. For now she took the lead as their attention turned back to the human-prey-pack- _Stiles_ scent that was so maddening. He was sick with infection and hurt and would be _so easy_ to hunt. But he was pack, and warmth and soft touches when it was dark and—

Stiles had put his back to a wall and was saying something, voice low and smooth. "— _ull moon_ , you guys don't want to do this, you really don't. Come on, it's _me_..." It felt good, hearing him speak. Comforting. He remembered that voice, that scent when he'd been hurting, after the alphas had hurt him—other alphas, not his alpha, _bad_ alphas, frightening, smell-wrong, hurt—

"—I probably taste really bad anyway. My diet is terrible, and you are what you eat, right? I'm probably like, half mono sodium glutamate—"

Erica dropped to all fours and crept forward, head low, bare feet squeaking on the floor. Boyd followed, teeth bared in a low, constant snarl. 

"Okay, talking you down clearly isn't happening," Stiles kept talking, his voice rising in slowly growing panic. He kept slipping along the wall, bad leg trying to give out every few steps. "I hope you guys don't remember this in the morning." 

"Oh, don't worry. They won't." A scent cut through the air—sharp blood and fur, _alpha_ but not his alpha, enemy, _wrong_ , threat. "And here I was afraid I'd miss the festivities. Lucky me." 

One of the males appeared in the hallway, eyes bloody red with the full moon, almost hidden under a flop of messy blond hair. He wasn't one that had hurt them—always to the side, always watching without doing. But he smelled like danger, and when he looked at Stiles, it was _hungry_. He wanted Stiles, but Stiles was _theirs_ , pack-prey-friend _theirs_.

Together, Boyd and Erica leaped. Enemy-alpha snarled and twisted to dodge, but they knew that move, had learned it with other-alpha. Erica went low, slashing at his legs while Boyd went high, bringing his full weight down, teeth ripping into the enemy's shoulder with a taste of bright copper blood. The three of them crashed together in a tangle of limbs and claws and snapping teeth. One hard kick sent Erica flying into a wall, which cracked on impact. Then enemy-alpha had Boyd on his back, fangs bared for the killing blow. 

A pale arm wrapped around the alpha's head from behind, yanking him back before he could get Boyd's throat. More blood-scent flared, fresh and new, bright red splashing across the floor. Stiles twisted, rolling them all together until Boyd could get a new grip with his teeth. Erica appeared again in a blur of blond hair and claws, trying for the throat. 

The alpha roared and yanked free, leaving a piece of his arm in Boyd's mouth. Dark fur crawled over his body, joints snapping as the transformation started to take. Cold terror froze both betas on the spot. 

_Alpha enemy danger run run run—_

Boyd whined and backed away, feeling Erica at his side do the same. Fresh air still curled through the air, a promise of safety and freedom. It was too much. Survival instinct overrode the raw anger of the full moon. They fled, claws scrabbling over wood, smearing blood as they went. The air was coming from an open grate set in the roof. Metal bent as they crashed through it into the warm night, the moon singing overhead.

And then, there was only running.

* * *

"Damn it!" 

Derek stared down at the ground like it had offended him. Which, in fact, it had. The scent just _stopped_. It didn't even pick up nearby, which it would have if the alphas had taken to jumping. Instead it was as if something had come along and just wiped it away. Bad enough that the scent was a week old; they'd gotten lucky with the hot, dry weather preserving what was left it, but whatever tricks they were pulling were good enough that he might _never_ find the trail again even without rain to muddle things.

"Another dead end?" the Sheriff asked quietly, feet crunching heavily through the deadfall and old leaves. He smelled like sweat and leather, heat and gunpowder from the shotgun hanging from a strap on his shoulder. Not normally reassuring scents, but good in this case. His flashlight flickered on and over the ground, blindingly bright for the brief second it was on. 

There was no answer to that question that Derek wanted to give. Stiles was his son; Derek might never have been a father, but he'd lost enough family members to know that hollow feeling when they weren't coming back. He didn't want to be the one to give it to someone else. 

When Derek didn't answer, the Sheriff dropped down into a crouch at Derek's side. "You know, you never told me why you're doing this," he commented idly. Derek turned to stare at him, amazed that the man wanted to chit-chat _right then_ , when they were deep in foreign territory trying to find his son. 

As if he couldn't see Derek's expression, the Sheriff just kept on talking. "Last I knew, Stiles was just the kid who got you implicated in your sister's murder. And now you're helping me look for him. Why?" 

Biting his lip, Derek looked away and up, watching the moon glide overhead behind the tree branches. The rest of the pack and Scott were supposed to be spread out, away from the temptation of the tasty human in their midst. That didn't mean they couldn't hear him. Peter definitely wouldn't have gone far enough to miss any gossip. Even before the fire, Peter had loved knowing things he wasn't supposed to know. 

"He saved my life a few times," Derek finally said, grudgingly, picking out the truth that was simplest. It was easier than trying to explain that the alphas were only there because of him, or that he and Stiles had been thrown together enough times that he almost cared what happened to the boy. "He helped me kill Peter."

Since he wasn't looking, Derek missed the Sheriff's reaction to that. Once he did glance back down, all there was to see was a professional-level poker face. "Peter," the Sheriff said flatly. "Peter Hale. As in, the Peter Hale who is currently _walking behind us_?"

"If it helps, I don't think Peter holds a grudge." Derek smirked, more amused than he should have been. "Werewolves don't always stay dead, Sheriff." 

The man let out an explosive sigh and shook his head. "You might as well call me Randy at this point. Stiles—" His flat expression cracked, pain bleeding through. "My boy helped murder your uncle. It's a little late for formalities."

"We'll find him," Derek said, with more assurance than he really felt. He rose to his feet, hearing Randy's knees crack as he followed. "I just need to find where the trail picks up again. We have to be close."

Something—Derek wasn't sure what—made him look upward to the moon again. A pair of glowing red eyes stared back at him. 

He didn't think. He moved. In a flash, Derek had slammed into Randy's side, just a heartbeat before a fully transformed alpha werewolf barreled through the space where he'd been standing. In the woods the betas let out confused, frightened noises as more alphas dropped down from the trees. 

The one who'd attacked first leaped, claws leaving long rents in the soil. She threw herself at Derek, ducking past at the last second to try and sweep Derek's feet out from under him. He dodged, raking his claws down her side. Before he could even finish, she'd pivoted, smashing her knee against his jaw and then darting back out of range. 

Derek kept Randy between his back and a tree trunk, baring his teeth at the one he'd marked. The rest of the pack wasn't attacking yet, which meant that they were either playing with their food, or up to something that required them alive. If he'd had to guess, Derek would have bet the former. If they'd wanted to talk, they wouldn't have changed completely. 

There were four of them—one female, three males, which meant there was at least one unaccounted for. Worse, they were all strong enough to be fully transformed. They looked like direwolves out of an Animal Planet special; Derek hadn't even figured out how to take the half-alpha form like Peter had used. 

Without risking taking his eyes off the attackers, Derek couldn't risk glancing back. So he just asked, "You loaded for wolf?"

"Where do you think a guy like me can find wolfsbane shells on short notice?" Randy answered, far too calmly for a man staring four types of death in the face. "But at this range, I can blow one hell of a hole in one. You guys can't grow back an arm, can you?" 

A nasty smile spread across Derek's face. Circling behind the pack, he saw the golden eyes of Isaac and Scott, knew that somewhere to the side Peter was waiting for his chance. Compared to alphas they were ridiculously underpowered, but they'd surprised him before. "Not easily." 

Two of the alphas growled, clearly understanding the implications of that and not liking it. One of the males crouched, snarling dangerously. The males were young, they _smelled_ young, like they were still growing into their paws. Derek let his eyes drift away, toward the lighter-furred female. 

It worked.

A male roared and leaped. Derek dropped to the ground, booted feet planting in the wolf's stomach as he landed. One heave and the wolf was flying through the air. Tree limbs broke as the other alpha crashed through them before he slammed into a tree trunk. A shotgun blast tore through the night behind him. The other male danced back, yelping as he barely missed being shot. 

Before any of the others could take advantage of his prone position, Derek rolled to his feet. He let his body language speak for him, crouching down, teeth bared and head up. If they couldn't read _that_ , they were idiots. His ears rang from the blast, but the alpha pack had backed up a few feet, warier now. 

_Not such easy pickings, are we?_

Behind him, he heard Randy reload. 

Pale skin blurred into motion behind the alphas as Peter darted out of cover. One of them yelped, hind legs giving out as the hamstrings were cut. The scent of copper-wet-hot blood cut through the air. While the wolf was still down, Scott and Isaac pounced from the darkness, claws tearing through fur and skin. They were gone almost before the alphas realized they were there, fading back into the woods.

Two down. _For now,_ Derek reminded himself. They were getting lucky; if the pack thought to work together, they wouldn't have a chance. But for all that they smelled like a pack, they didn't act like it. Too many dominant personalities, unwilling to give an inch. 

The older male stepped back, ears pressed against his head. The female wolf whimpered, but dragged herself upright while her legs were still healing. He snapped at her half-heartedly, legs trembling under him, fur spotted with blood. Ligaments, Derek knew, were painfully slow to grow back. Haltingly, the final male limped out of the woods, obviously still hurting from where Derek had thrown him. 

Four alphas against three betas, an alpha and a human. Even with two of the alphas injured, it wasn't a fair fight. 

"Scott, Isaac, Peter," Derek called, staying low, ready to move. Isaac and Scott appeared from opposite sides, skirting the alphas to slide up to Derek's sides. Randy cursed something about _blocking his shot_ and, presumably, lowered his shotgun. Predictably, Peter ignored him. Derek wasn't even surprised. 

"Take the Sheriff and run," he said, voice low, even though he knew the alphas could hear him. "I'll hold them back as long as I can." 

"I'm not going anywhere." Randy apparently found a new angle for his shot; the barrel of the shotgun glinted in the moonlight on Derek's left side. "They're the ones that have my son, aren't they?"

"Yeah," Scott answered for him, nostrils flared. "That's the scent."

"Good." Before Derek could blink, the shotgun roared again. The darker male yelped, blood spraying from his front leg. _Click-click-clack_ and another blast rang out, catching another male right in the hindquarters. 

So much for retreat. 

Derek darted forward, grabbing the first wolf he hit and going for the throat. He missed, fangs sinking into shoulder muscle, but he was able to get his claws into tender underbelly. It wasn't deep enough to gut, but blood sprayed everywhere. The wolf twisted free, scrambling away, only to run into Isaac's claws. 

Something arced through the air, a glint of glass. It scattered the males, who'd huddled together defensively. Liquid fire arched out, spraying across their fur. They howled and darted apart, rolling in an attempt to put out the flames. 

Howls sounded in the distance, and the female snapped an answer, still bleeding from the gunshot, bone flashing white against the mess of gore. She circled, rounding up the other three, snapping them back. Burnt and bleeding, the alphas turned and ran. Not away—they hadn't done enough damage to chase them off, but whatever the howl was about was more important than Derek's band of invaders.

"Isaac!" Derek snapped, but his reliable beta was already on the move, following the alphas through the trees.

"What the hell was that?" Randy demanded, staring at Peter with his shotgun still up. 

"A trick I picked up from your son." Peter flashed a charming smile, the one that made Derek's hackles rise every time. "We should go. There might be more of them, and I don't have anymore tricks on me." 

"But Stiles—" Scott protested, voice dropping into a soft whine. "We're so close." 

Derek snapped his hand out, catching Scott in the chest before he could move forward on some idiotic one-man hunt. "Isaac will follow them to their den," he said. "We'll have time to plan, and to hit them when they're not expecting us."

"He's right, Scott." Randy patted Scott's shoulder. "I don't like it either, but we won't help Stiles if we die trying to save him."

"Come on." Derek pushed Scott and Randy ahead of him, trusting Peter—for once—to cover the rear. A howl rose in the distance, hauntingly familiar. It followed them as the retraced their steps back to the cars.

* * *

Stiles nearly fell on his face as he was shoved back inside the cage. The door slammed shut behind him with enough force that the wood rattled and creaked, and the locks snapped closed vindictively. The alpha—Marcus—leered at him, red eyes flashing.

"Now _stay_ this time, will you?" 

Then the door was closed, and the light was gone, leaving him alone in the dark. Somewhere out there, Erica and Boyd were either running free or running for their lives. 

At least they were running.

Sitting up, Stiles checked over his injuries. Every little movement throbbed and ached, worse than they had before. His knee was even more swollen and sore than before, so he checked that off the list of things to worry about. Shoulder aching like it was trying for a world record, add another check. Cuts, bangs, bruises and various claw marks, all oozing appropriately, check, check, fucking _check_. Bite on his forearm... 

_Shit._

It was already starting to heal from where the alpha bit him. The wound, which had started out wide and ragged and bleeding like it would kill him, had crusted over. At the far edges it already felt like raised flesh and tender scar tissue. He wasn't an expert, but it didn't take one to know what that meant. 

Trying to pull Marcus off Boyd had been an idiot move. He'd known it at the time, but he'd still done it. And he'd do it again, if given the choice. Boyd had been in serious trouble, and Stiles hadn't even thought twice before sticking his arm in an alpha werewolf's mouth to keep Boyd from getting his throat ripped out. Which, really, summed up Stiles' entire year in one horrible incident. 

Damned _werewolves_. Stiles had one thing going for him in the whole business, and that was not turning fuzzy and trying to maul people once a month. It was just his bad luck that he'd lose his one advantage.

Moving carefully, since his knee was still throbbing like it would fall off, Stiles shuffled backwards, scooting on his ass until he estimated he was close to the sides. The eyebrow ring was still in the cage. As long as he wasn't infected enough to be barred by mountain ash yet, he'd be able to jimmy the lock again. It might take him a few hours, but it would be better than sitting back and doing nothing. 

Stiles took a slow breath to steady himself. Then, reaching out a hand, he touched the bars. His skin hissed, burning like he'd grabbed a hot iron straight from the fire. Yelping, Stiles yanked it back. 

So much for _that_ plan.

Shifting back to the middle of the cage, Stiles tried to stretch out in a way that hurt as few of his injuries as possible. After he'd done it, he ended up curling up into a ball anyway, even though his everything protested the movement. The cage felt too large, empty and cold, the darkness pressing down like a weight. There was no one else to match his breath to, no one to lean against. 

Alone in his cage, Stiles closed his eyes against the dark and tried to sleep.

* * *

The drive back to Beacon Hills was uneventful, an hour of oncoming headlights and mostly silence. Scott sat in the passenger seat of the squad car, while Peter and Derek waited in the Camaro for Isaac to return. On the drive Randy got a few calls from his deputies, asking how he was holding up, and from Schuller, who never missed an opportunity to tell him about the progress they were supposedly making.

He tried not to think of _why_ they were more helpful, or to remember the last time it was that way, back after Ariana died and he found himself a single parent. Some memories were better left untouched. 

It itched, not being able to tell the department what he'd found. Hoarding evidence wasn't done, and more than once it had cost lives. Randy prided himself on running a good department in that regard. But he was aware enough to know that there was nothing his people could do other than charge in and get killed. Even if they believed his explanation, they weren't prepared for werewolves. _He_ wasn't prepared for werewolves.

Pulling into the Hale house at just past three in the morning felt a lot like going back to square one. Randy dropped his forehead against the steering wheel and concentrated on breathing. 

They would find his son. They _would_. They'd gotten closer than ever. With any luck, Isaac would have found where the cowards were hiding, and next time they'd be on a rescue run and not just a search.

It was just hard to believe when he had an empty house to go home to. 

"Mr. Stilinski?"

 _Shit._ He'd forgotten that he wasn't alone in the car. Since it was too late to pretend he was fine, Randy just turned his head to meet Scott's worried eyes. "I'm okay, Scott."

Scott frowned, like he could tell Randy was lying. "You should go talk to Mr. Argent," he blurted out, exactly like a kid spilling a secret he knew he wasn't supposed to tell. "Derek doesn't think we should involve them, but they'll be able to help." 

Randy frowned and sat up, keeping his hands on the wheel out of habit. "Chris Argent?" he asked, frowning. "What does he have to do with any of this?" 

"He's a hunter," Scott said easily. "The whole family is werewolf hunters." The way Scott said it, it all sounded _normal_ , like just another thing in life. _Pass the toast, chemistry test today, there's a family of werewolf hunters..._

Air hissed between Randy's teeth. He hadn't realized he'd clenched them. It made sense, though, once he started thinking about it. It had been Chris's sister who'd been in the middle of what Randy now knew was supernatural hell over the winter. Then there'd been the suicide of his wife and the disappearance of his father within weeks of each other—the three together were enough to make any lawman eye the Argent family warily. And that was without knowing about werewolves. The only thing that kept them under the radar was a pile of impeccable references. 

Something else occurred to Randy. "Weren't you dating Allison Argent for a while?"

Slowly, Scott hunched down in the seat, shoulders coming up. "Yeah?" 

That sounded... exactly like the sort of Romeo and Juliet crap Randy would have expected from the situation if he'd had time to. Species might change; teenage idiocy was universal. He was probably just lucky Stiles was still pining over Lydia Martin. "Right. Thanks for the advice, Scott. I'll think about it."

"No problem, sir." Probably worried that Randy would start asking uncomfortable questions, Scott opened the door and scrambled out. "I'll wait for Derek here. Thanks for the ride." 

Randy leaned over the center console, the better to see Scott's eyes. "You're sure you'll be okay, waiting by yourself?" 

Gold eyes flared in the dark ask Scott grinned, flashing a set of choppers. "I'll be fine, sir. But thanks."

 _Werewolf. Right._ But at the end of the day, Randy was still a parent. "Keep your phone on, and don't hesitate to call for help. You might be a big bad creature of the night, but there's bigger and badder out there. Call me when you get home."

Scott sighed, shoulders rounding and teeth sliding back to normal. "Yes, sir." 

And _there_ was the petulant teenage whine that had been missing from his life. Randy patted the window and started the car, waiting until Scott stepped away to touch the gas. 

His patrol car bumped and rolled over what was, for lack of a better term, Hale's driveway. It wound through the woods, dodging trees and angling up hills before letting out on the highway. Randy stared at the blacktop for a minute before pulling out.

Beacon Hills wasn't a big town by most standards. A determined person could walk it end to end in a few hours. Most people lived in the rural area around it, technically outside the town limits while still being close enough to reap the benefits of civilization. There were developments going up in the narrow border between _rural_ and _city_ , drawing people in spite of the market crash going on in most of the rest of the country. It wasn't quite enough to be called a suburb, but it was there all the same.

He drove to one of the more recent developments, a line of cookie-cutter houses in an area too new to have a nickname yet. The Argent family lived in a little brick number, trimmed with white paint and with rose bushes on the side. There was a light on in the kitchen, even though it wasn't quite four AM yet. Randy parked by the mailbox and climbed out of his car, taking a moment to just... look, to take in the house's normalcy. 

It wasn't hard to believe a family of werewolf hunters lived there. He'd been a deputy before he'd ever run for office, and beat cop before that, back when he'd lived in San Francisco, before settling down to raise a family in a small town had seemed like a good idea. There'd been too many mild-looking psychopaths in cuffs for him to have any faith in appearances. But it was a lot to take in, all the same. 

Making sure his gun was still at his hip, Randy walked up the path and knocked. The light in the kitchen stayed on, but another one joined it in the living room. Then the door opened to reveal Chris Argent, barefoot in jeans and a henley. "Randy," he said, honest surprise flickering over his face. "It's a little early for a social call." 

"That's 'cause it's not, Chris." Randy shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up, meeting Chris's eyes. "Werewolves have my son. I've been told you're the guy to see about that."

The emotion drained out of Chris's face, leaving only a professional sort of blankness behind. He swung the door wider and stepped aside. "I think you'd better come in."

* * *

It took two days to get everything ready. Two days that left Derek itching for action. But they couldn't just hare off when they were that badly outnumbered, even Derek had to admit that. Lucky didn't have to mean the same thing as stupid. He needed to gather information. He needed supplies. He needed a plan. 

He needed to kill Scott.

"What is he doing here?" Derek slammed the trunk of his Camaro a little bit harder than he should have. It was stuffed full of first aid gear, spare clothing and whatever else he'd been able to think of. But even if it was all innocuous, that didn't mean he wanted _Chris fucking Argent_ to see it. Everyone close to the man had turned out to be a murderer; Derek wasn't going to sit around and wait for the last shoe to drop. " _Scott_."

"I didn't know Mr. Stilinski would invite him!" Scott protested from the porch steps. "I just thought he could get some bullets or something!" 

Beside him, Peter just had his head in his hands, either in sympathetic exasperation or to hide laughter. Knowing Peter, probably laughter. 

Argent waited by his SUV, well back from the rest of the old house, at the very edge of what used to be the lawn. Its lights had been left on, cutting a beam through the darkness and, incidentally, ruining Derek's night vision. He seemed to have expected to be on thin ice, because he'd left his hip and shoulder holsters pointedly empty, though Derek was pretty sure he smelled a third and a fourth on him somewhere. "I didn't come here to fight with you, Hale."

It was ridiculously early, hours from sunrise. Even the birds were quiet, not yet ready to rise for the day. Which meant it was too damned early to deal with surprises. "Then why did you come?"

"Because I asked him to." Randy climbed out of the passenger side of the SUV. It said something about how unprepared Derek had been that he hadn't even noticed him there. "He has firepower and experience we need."

"Did he tell you that his _experience_ is in trying to kill your son's best friend?" Derek demanded, baring his teeth.

"We talked about that, too, and came to an... agreement," Randy said unflinchingly. Not for the first time, it made Derek wonder if Stiles' mother was where the kid got his all-arms flailing. "It won't be a problem." 

"Wolfsbane bullets work just as well on a human as ordinary ones," Argent added, not seeming to mind the implication. "I'm here because there's a human boy in trouble, and not even _you_ can try and say it's only pack business. When a human gets involved, it's hunter business." 

Wood creaked as Peter stood up, throwing his arms wide. For the first time that week, he was dressed in a practical pair of jeans and a dark tee. Probably they were the only clothes he was willing to risk to a fight. "One big happy family?" he asked brightly. "Delightful. Where's dear little Allison?" 

Argent's jaw tightened, but Scott—of _course_ —perked up at the name. "Is she coming? Is she—"

"She's sitting this one out. Her choice," Argent snapped. He took the pair of guns Randy handed him, tucking them into place before slipping on his jacket. It was heavier than it needed to be for a warm summer night if it were only supposed to hide the holsters. Derek's suspicions were confirmed when Argent double-checked his shoulder harness and something in the pockets clanked. 

"Did Randy tell you the—" Derek froze mid-word as a frisson of awareness ran up his back. Isaac and Peter did the same, followed only a second later by Scott. It wasn't anything he could smell, or hear, but there was _something_ there. His head cocked slightly, listening. 

"Do you—" Argent started to say, but Derek held up his hand to shut him up. 

Deep in the woods, something went _crack_.

Derek slid over the car and darted into the woods before the sound finished echoing. Isaac and Scott ran close after, flanking him. Randy shouted something, but if he tried to follow Derek didn't notice. His attention locked on the faint _notrightwrong_ feeling of the woods, _his_ woods, on all the little cues that had grated over his nerves subconsciously. 

There was another predator on _his_ land. 

Streams and fallen trees blocked their path as they ran. Derek jumped them without breaking stride, trusting the betas to manage themselves. The back of the old Hale property connected to the Preserve. In next to no time, the property markers flashed by, and the route got rougher, the ground less beaten from generations of Hales. 

Movement caught his eye up ahead. A flash of clothing, pale skin and hair. A hint of blood on the breeze. Roaring a challenge, Derek leaped. 

The invader screamed and dived out of the way. Derek landed on all fours, just in time to be slammed into from the side by another trespasser. He snarled and slashed with his claws as he rolled to his feet, but the second one hadn't stuck around to be caught. 

"Derek, stop!" Boyd threw himself in front of Erica, arms spread to cover her. "It's us!"

Breathing heavily, Derek took them in. His fangs slid back away, making it easier to speak. "What are you two doing back here?" His eyes flicked over Boyd, taking in the bloody wreck of a shirt, the pounds he'd lost. Both of them were barefoot and covered in dirt and muck from the ankles down. They reeked like enemy wolf, like pain and fear and blood. "Being omegas didn't work out so well, did it?" 

Erica snarled, baring her teeth in challenge from under Boyd's arm. "We're not omegas."

"You're not a pack without an _alpha_ ," Derek snapped, as Isaac and Scott crunched to a stop behind him.

" _Boyd_?" Scott stepped past Derek, inserting himself in the middle of the proto-fight. "Erica? What happened? Are you okay? Why—" He blinked, nose lifting into the air. Taking a step forward, he slid himself right into Boyd's personal space, nose working loudly. "Why do you smell like Stiles?" 

" _What_?" Grabbing the back of Scott's shirt, Derek hauled him out of the way before shoving Boyd back into a tree. He breathed in deeply, nose dragging down Boyd's cheek and neck. Helpfully, his former beta lifted his chin, letting Derek get a good nose-full. 

Not that he needed it. Once he knew what he was looking for, it was easy to smell. Under the thick layer of grime and blood, the wrongness that came from weeks apart, there was an unmistakable thread of scent. It was written on Boyd's skin, rubbed in like a signature. _Stiles was here._ Even his _scent_ managed to be obnoxious. 

"Why?" Derek demanded, pulling away from Boyd to look between the two. 

"They still have him," Erica said, leaning against Isaac like she desperately needed the support. Maybe she did. Her eyes were edging on gold, and her heartbeat sounded like it might bounce right out of her chest. "We got away, but they have Stiles."

* * *

The brick wall cracked as Stiles was thrown into it for the fifth or sixth time. He didn't even try to catch himself as he landed, head ringing with more injuries than he could count. Claws swiped over his back, and he tried to dart away, but his knees gave out under him. Before he could even finish collapsing, a clawed foot slammed into his stomach, almost ripping him open again. 

They had him surrounded, the twins, Marcus and Locke. Deucalion was nowhere to be seen, which was a twisted sort of relief. Stiles could deal with Kali, could handle pain. Not... _that_. Not again. 

"Come on, pup," Kali purred, the sound of her voice seemingly right next to his ear. Her heartbeat stood out among those who ringed him; slow and steady, only speeding as the blood got her excited. She liked blood. He could smell exactly how much she liked it. "I thought you'd be better at this. I had such high hopes for you."

Stiles groaned and shook his head, staying low so she couldn't throw him as easily again. He couldn't _focus_. Tired. He was so tired of hurting, of being hungry and sore and afraid. So very tired. Everything hurt, everything was too much. Too many smells too bright too loud too much _bloodpainfearskinclothsweatpaintpine—_

Another kick caught him in the hip, toe claws gouging deep enough to scrape against bone. The pain snapped him out of his daze, but didn't help. "Just _roll over_ ," Marcus said from behind him. "You don't have to make this difficult." 

"I don't?" Stiles asked, spitting out a mouthful of blood. Marcus, thank all holy God, hadn't tried to use his link to Stiles to control him. They all seemed to prefer the hard way. "Nah, you just can't make me, can you? Or are you just embarrassed that two betas and a _human_ got the drop on you, and you think this'll help?" 

Mouthing off got him another swipe of claws, this time across the face. A flash of movement in the corner of his eye warned him just in time to scramble out of the way of another pounce. He stared up into Kali's eyes, hunched low and ready to move if she did. His knee kept buckling under him. Werewolf healing had worked its magic, but something had healed wrong. It wouldn't hold much weight, and when he tried to bend it too far it hurt like it was breaking again.

Kali's claws clicked on the floor as she dropped down to his level, one hand resting against the back of his neck. "You can't protect them, you know," she said softly, almost sweetly. Red was smeared across her cheek— _his_ blood, he hadn't even managed to land one claw on her. "You can't even protect yourself. We'll break you, and then we'll use you. Strays always run back to their last den. We'll find the whole pack, and then.."

The whole world seemed to slow down. His vision narrowed, tunneling down to just what was in front of him, to red hair and claws. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear anything past the pound of his pulse in his ears, couldn't focus past the ache in his lungs and the black creeping in.

_Oh God they're going to kill them Dad Scott Boyd Erica—_

She leaned closer, claws digging into the nape of his neck, a painful burn that stole away everything. White flashed behind his eyes, memories that weren't his, beta wolves crying for mercy. "You're going to burn this town to the ground," Kali whispered somewhere behind the pain.

Stiles' claws dug into the red-stained cement. He couldn't breathe, couldn't make his thoughts slow down. The room was drenched in the smell of fear, of blood, his blood, Erica and Boyd's blood. Everything hurt and he couldn't focus couldn't breathe— _he needed to breathe_.

Something tugged in his thoughts, like Kali was reaching into some deep part of his brain. He convulsed, helplessly trying to yank free of the hold while his thoughts were yanked away. 

_Melissa Isaac Derek Lydia Jackson Dad oh my God Dad they're going to kill him and I can't stop it I can't I can't I can't—_

The claws in his neck flexed, digging in. 

Still.

Quiet.

His lips curled back. He growled. 

"What? Find your teeth, pup?" The alpha female— _enemy, bad, hurts_ —made noises, soft, grating noises that made his hackles rise. Others made the same noise, rising up around him like a bad howl. At his back. To the sides. They had him trapped. Deep under ground, under dirt. Enemy den. Not safe. 

Staying on all fours, he circled low. One of his legs tried to give out, to drag. He made it work, though, locking the knee to keep upright, only bending it when he had to. Weakness would get him killed and he couldn't afford that. He had to run, to run and run until he could protect his pack, until they were _safe_. 

He had to escape, had to run run run _run_. 

_Hurting-bad-alpha_ watched him, teeth bared. She threw herself at him, claws raking at him. He rose up, letting his chest take the hit in order to barrel into her, weight tossing her to the side. She stumbled, dropping to a knee. 

Before she could get back up, he bolted for the next closest, the alpha-his-not-his alpha, the one who'd bitten him, teeth sinking into his knee and ripping. Not-his alpha screamed, bringing up an arm to protect his throat and slashing out. He dodged easily, ripping free a chunk of meat that was springy but wouldn't chew. Spitting it out, he circled again, looking for another opening. 

"Shit, he's gone feral! Bring him down!" 

Two bodies piled on him from the back. He tried to twist to snap at them, but they slithered around, avoiding his bites. Tight things wrapped around his legs, trapping him again. Worse. He couldn't move, couldn't protect himself. Panic gripped his throat, ripping howls from him as he fought for his freedom. 

Pain burst behind his eyelids as something heavy slammed into the back of his head. Dazed by the blow, he slumped forward, panting for air that never seemed to come. 

"Stick him back in the cage," hurting-bad-alpha said, noises rolling across his ears without making sense. They weren't howls, didn't have any meaning. "We'll figure out what to do with him later."

Two alphas—young-cubs-twins—picked him up. He tugged weakly, but their claws dug in as they hauled him out of the blood-smelling place. 

It didn't take him long to realize where they were taking him. To the dark place, the place with wood that burned to touch and the smell of pack-pain-hurts and piss. But his pack wasn't there. He had to find his pack, had to protect them, couldn't go back to the dark place. 

One of the walls was close as they carried him. He reached out and dug in his claws, twisting. The twin-alphas hadn't been expecting it. Their claws slipped. The last of the strange cloth thing on his legs ripped and he was able to pull free. His feet hit the floor and he didn't wait for his leg to hurt again. He bolted. 

The twin-alphas snarled behind him, chasing, but he knew where he was going. Had been there before, when his pack had run. He could smell their trail, the scent of the dark place and home. More importantly, he could smell _escape_. Fresh air sang in his nose, promising freedom to hide from the hurts and the blood, to find his pack. They were fast; he was faster, fear lending him speed, taking turns tight, claws digging into the ground to keep him steady. 

On the last turn, mangled metal rested on the ground in front of him, torn apart. He dived through it, front claws digging into dirt to lift himself up until his back claws could grab hold. Darkness beyond, but not the same as the dark place. It smelled of forest and life, water and dirt and nighttime. Overhead the stars were fading as the sky just started to lighten and the setting moon turned everything silver, the first he'd seen since before. 

Sounds behind him echoed up to cut through the night. He startled, skittering sideways and running for the trees. Footfalls sounded loud behind him, two sets, then three and four. Five. The pack called to each other in low howls and roars, nonsense noises mixed in. 

He ran, ducking trees and clambering over hills. His wounds slowed him down, made him sluggish even with the fear spurring him on. Mud slipped underfoot as he splashed through a stream. It was enough to steal his legs from under him. The twist in his knee that hadn't healed right went _crack_. A howl of pain tore from his throat as the bone snapped again. 

Falling to all fours, he limped along, hind leg hunched up. Panic was thick, choking him. He could hear them close behind, howling, moon-mad and hungry. Up ahead, a break in the trees loomed, standing out against the growing light of dawn. Open space, nowhere to hide, but maybe room to lose them. If he could just find somewhere to den up, to lick his wounds—

He broke through the line of trees and dragged to a stop, tripping over his own feet in his haste. Not-his-alpha, the one who'd bitten him, wrong-bad-hungry waited in the middle of the clearing. Red eyes locked on his.

Slowly, reluctantly, his heartbeat gentled. Air started coming easier. It hurt, but the pain was less. A feeling like a warm den wrapped around him. Soft comfort and safety. Protection. Danger screamed behind him, but it was safe where he was. 

Wrong. It was wrong, he could feel it, taste it, but so hard to fight. The pull was like a chain in his middle, locking down his fear and packing it away. The alpha approached, one hand held out. His leg gave out under him, dropping him to the ground as the alpha— _my alpha, not-my-alpha_ —crouched beside him. He shook as the hand touched his shoulder, then slid up into his hair. It smelled like bad things, but he still leaned into the touch. 

_No wrong not-alpha not mine no—_

"Shhh," the alpha murmured, petting him. The noise settled into his bones, making him jump at the same time that he wanted to sag to the ground. "Easy. Relax." 

The shaking got worse. He didn't want to do what instinct said. It was _wrong_. _This_ was wrong. It was pack and not-pack and fear and he could feel the alpha urging him back to the den, to the dark place and he didn't want to go, didn't want to be alone. 

He whined, trying to get his leg under him again so he could get away. His weight lifted up, rocking him forward. When he shifted, the alpha's claws sank into the vulnerable back of his neck, sharp bites of pain. Snarling, he tried to duck down, to escape the claws, but the hold tightened. Desperate, he lunged forward. His hind-claws dug into tender belly. Hot blood splashed across his face and neck as he found the throat, fangs sinking in. The alpha slashed at him, claws ripping a chunk of meat from his arm, but he dug in harder, yanking. Under him, the body convulsed and then fell still, red fading from its eyes.

Heat curled through his veins. He felt like he could run forever, could fight anything, could _protect_. It buzzed in his head and down his back. All the scents, all the sounds were stronger, vibrating through him. Nothing would hurt him again, he wouldn't let it. _Strong fast free—_

Others grabbed him from behind. He twisted, snapping at the attackers, claws sinking into warm red meat. The wolves dodged, but he was fast too, spinning around them, biting at their flanks. Three wolves, three _alphas_ , but not pack. Not his, not each other's. He could see that now, the way they worked against each other, snapping when one set a foot wrong and stumbled into them. They weren't a pack that hunted together. Even the twin-alphas were at odds. 

He took advantage of it, sliding into space made by bodies that wouldn't get close enough to bare their throats, leaping onto unguarded backs and biting down onto tender necks before he was chased away. They snapped and snarled, trying to get him, but he was too fast, flushed with strength. There were more of them, and it didn't _matter_. There was only the hunt, and the instinctive knowledge that if they got him there would be nothing to protect _his_ pack from them. He wasn't going to let them hurt his pack. He'd die first, die with his teeth in their flesh. 

Far, far away, a howl went up. Fear froze him down to his bones. Memories of bright pain and fear shivered through him, of breaking bones and threats the smell of his blood as it pooled under him. His heart pounded in his throat, making it hard to breathe, hard to feel like an alpha when she was _there_ and she was _coming_.

Trembling, he backed away from the fight. Had to run. Had to escape. She was coming, she would have him and hurt him and his pack and he couldn't he couldn't he _couldn't_ —

Turning tail, he ran.


	4. Into the Breach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always with huge thanks to RatherAStory for her beta work.

Fading sunlight turned the woods amber around them. Scott stomped as rudely as he could through the peaceful scenery, took time to brush up against trees and bushes, crunched heavily in every pile of leaves he passed. Erica and Isaac flanked him, making just as big of a mess as he was. Somewhere deeper in the woods, they were being paced by Peter and Derek; those two had elected to remain silent and leave being visible bait to the betas.

Scott wasn't sure he liked that idea, but the noise and scent-marking made him feel better, at least. They'd lost the morning to Erica and Boyd, and then the rest of the day because Derek said noon was a bad time for the plan. 

He tried not to be upset about it. They'd been badly hurt, and he didn't want to be the sort of person who begrudged them a couple of burgers and some clean clothing. But no matter how he'd tried to contain himself, every delay made him angry. Stiles was _out there_ , and by what Erica had said, he was being tortured. Every minute he was gone was another minute closer to too late. 

Actually being in the woods confirmed pretty much everything he'd been afraid of. Something had happened. Scott could just tell, even as inexperienced as he was. There was a tension in the air that there hadn't been the last time they'd come, and a dark scent tickled his nose. It smelled like blood, but like meat, too. Like _food_.

It reminded him of what Kate had smelled like, after Peter killed her. 

"We're getting close," Isaac said, lifting his voice. In the weird light of sunset, it was hard to see if his eyes had changed or not. He smelled like wolf, but Scott had noticed that Derek's pack tended to sometimes, even when they weren't. "This is where they went to ground last time." 

"I don't see any buildings." Scott lifted his head, sniffing the air. There was blood, and stale air, and something weird. Dirt that didn't fit with the rest of the dirt in the forest, which was stupid for his nose to tell him. Dirt was dirt. 

"They're underground," Erica said quietly, leaning against a tree to aggressively drag her shoulder against it. "It's... it's like a maze. I don't know how we got out before."

She'd put on one of the spare t-shirts Mr. Stilinski had come back with after he'd gone to get breakfast, but had kept her old jeans and had pulled her hair back with a tie. The loose clothes and lack of makeup made her look weirdly unintimidating, like a knight out of armor. Scott had gotten used to having to brace himself to deal with her. This new Erica, the one who kept her eyes low and had a heartbeat that jumped around unsteadily, worried him. He hadn't thought anything could get to Erica. 

Swallowing back his growing uncertainty, Scott looked around. "So where's the entrance, then? Do we just howl and wait to see where they pop out of?" 

Isaac shrugged. "Can't hurt."

Erica stepped forward between them, throwing out an arm across Scott and Isaac's stomachs like they might run in front of her. Her claws were out, cracked and dirty with what Scott thought might be dried blood, but they still looked razor sharp. "I'll do it," she said, voice wobbling slightly. "I want them to hear me." 

"Are you sure?" Scott couldn't help asking. She looked more like she wanted to hide under her bed, and he couldn't blame her. 

In answer, Erica tipped her head back. It wasn't the full-throated roar that Scott had used on his attempt to summon the alpha back when it all began, but something lower. Smoother. A challenge. It shivered in his bones. He clenched his fists, claws biting into his palm. He hadn't even realized he'd gotten them out. 

Erica's howl went on, and on, fading just for her to get another breath and start over. Off to the left, he the thought he heard Peter mutter something about _like alpha like beta_ , but it could have been his imagination. 

In the woods, another howl rose up, just as low, but questioning. Scott felt the shiver go through Erica where their shoulders touched, but she kept up her call until a chunk of leaves was shoved upward suddenly by a set of furred shoulders. The howls both died down as the first alpha climbed out of the ground, followed by another, and then a human-shaped guy. 

There were two more. Scott was sure of it. There'd been a woman and three men the other night. Which meant there was one more down there. And they had to figure out how to get them up out of their hole. 

The sunlight was just cutting behind them, sliced into ribbons by the trees. It made it hard to see them move without squinting. Derek had said that the weird light would be worse for alphas than for betas; their eyes were more sensitive. Scott really hoped this wasn't going to be one of those times Derek was wrong.

"So, the pup's come back to play, huh?" the man asked, smiling wide to flash his fangs. He had brown hair and the sort of short, spiky cut that always made Scott think of Jackson and, by connection, douchebags. Derek having the same hair didn't really help. "We knew you'd join back up with these losers. Where's the rest of your pack, honey?" 

"Around." Erica was full-on shaking, but she didn't look away. She smelled like cold fear and sweat, and if Scott could tell that she was afraid, the alphas would be able to, too. "You look like you've had a bad night, Aiden. Someone finally tell you face piercings went out in the 90s?" 

Scott couldn't see it, but the alpha shrugged. "Your friend is a feisty one, isn't he? He gave us some trouble. Nothing we can't handle." 

Ice slithered through Scott's chest. "What did you do with Stiles?" he demanded, shouldering past Erica. The two wolf-form alphas growled, but he ignored them. "Where is he?"

Leaves crunched behind them. "He's around," a woman's voice said. Instinctively, Scott whirled around to face the new threat. 

She wasn't very tall, but she had the kind of tightly controlled movements Scott was starting to recognize came from being incredibly dangerous. Her brown hair had been pulled back into a high ponytail that bobbed cheerfully as she walked up, hands shoved into her pockets. Blood was splattered all over her white t-shirt and blue jeans, smeared on her brown skin. Dry, old blood that cracked as she moved. At fifty feet, Scott would have known it was Stiles'; he'd known Stiles too long not to recognize his scent. 

"Kali," Erica whimpered. She'd stopped shaking, but it didn't feel like calming down. It felt like the moment right before running away. 

The three betas backed in against each other defensively. Derek and Peter were still in the woods, and if things really got tight there was more backup not too far. But it was hard to remember when they were surrounded. 

A low, deep snarl crawled out of Scott's throat. He tried to form words, but there weren't questions to ask. Those incriminating stains said everything. 

"What did you do to him?" Isaac asked in the deep rumble of a near wolf-out. 

Kali smiled. She had dimples. It was unreal, like something from a horror movie. Scott kept expecting her to attack, but she just stood there, looking as sweetly innocent as someone could while covered in human blood. "We played chase," she said, rocking forward onto the balls of her feet. "Like Aiden said, he's feisty. Things may have gotten a little... messy." 

Her heartbeat stayed steady.

Anger colored Scott's vision red. He roared and dived forward. Kali laughed and danced back, dodging him like it wasn't anything. "Even your friend did better than that," she taunted, sliding her hands out of her pockets. There was dried blood crusted under her fingernails. "He got in a hit. You're better than him, aren't you?" 

A wolf growled behind him, and Scott barely moved out of the way before one of them pounced on his back. Then Erica was there, going in low and fast. Her shoulder slammed into Kali's thigh, making her stumble enough that Scott's next try caught her on the stomach. Isaac barked a warning, and Scott ducked aside just as the other human-shaped alpha—Locke—almost landed a kick where his head had been. 

Before he could make another try, Erica grabbed Scott's hand and yanked, lacing their fingers so he couldn't break free easily. "Run!" she snapped, dragging him along. Isaac was already ahead of them, a flash of movement in between the trees. Off to the sides, Derek and Peter had come out of hiding and were taking on the alphas long enough to buy the betas some time before starting their own game of chase. 

That had been the plan, but Scott tried to dig in his heels. "We're missing one!" he yelled back at her. "There's more of them!" 

"No time!" she shot back, using her grip to tug him around a tree. They were already far enough away that the alpha fight behind them was invisible, but the sound still echoed off the trees. Isaac had vanished up ahead. "Run or I'll carry you!" 

So Scott ran, and tried not to feel like a traitor for leaving Stiles behind again.

* * *

Werewolf fights were exactly what Randy had expected them to be: bloody. He looked around at the aftermath of Derek's idea of a distraction and shook his head. The leaves had been kicked everywhere, and there were actual chunks of skin with fur still attached lying around. One tree had claw marks in it that, if he didn't know about werewolves, Randy might have tried to attribute to a bear. "This looks like a massacre." 

Chris looked at the ground and shrugged, toeing aside a patch of blood-soaked leaves. "I've seen worse." 

That wasn't reassuring. 

Boyd— _just_ Boyd, which Randy hoped would be enough to find the file on him when the time came, no matter that kid said he wouldn't have been reported missing—crouched down by the entrance. It was a grate set into the ground, backed by a sliding sheet of metal that, presumably, was designed to keep the weather out. Randy joined him, peering down into the surprisingly well-lit depths. It looked about twelve feet down, which was making his knees ache just to think about. "Is my son down there?"

"Maybe." Boyd's eyes had gone gold, which Randy suspected he would never get used to, and he sniffed the air. In one of Randy's spare flannels, he looked older than sixteen; it was too tight across the shoulders and arms, but he'd refused one of Derek's shirts that probably would have fit better. "I think I smell him, but it could be because we were down there for a while." 

"Then let's go." Chris crouched down and, keeping ahold of the edge of the grate, hopped down in one smooth move. He landed in a crouch at the bottom, rifle up as he scanned around what looked like some sort of storage room. "Clear," he called up, voice pitched low so it wouldn't carry. 

The more Randy saw of Chris Argent in action, the more worried he was for the wolves' future. The man was clearly good at what he did. Even if he swore up and down that he wasn't going for any werewolf trophies now, that didn't mean it wouldn't change in the future. 

And apparently there was a whole extended family of people just like him. _Jesus._

Randy and Boyd slipped down into the hole, Randy much less gracefully than the other two. He was in pretty good shape for a cop, but he wasn't a creature bumping around in the night, or one of the people who hunted them. There was no shame in that. 

It _was_ a storage room, but one that hadn't been touched for years. Dust and damp covered boxes that were starting to disintegrate from lack of care. They were labeled things like _salt_ and _smoked ham_ , with hand-written use-by dates from the seventies. A few were more ominous— _bullets_ and _spare knives_. It looked like some sort of survivalist bunker, the kind kept by people who were prepping for a nuclear apocalypse. 

"We're going to need a ladder to get out of here again," Randy said, tilting his head up to look through the hole. There was no chance he'd be able to jump for it, not with all the adrenalin in the world pushing him on. He didn't even think someone like Chris would be able to make that kind of leap. 

"I'll boost you," Boyd promised. "I can carry Stiles out without a ladder."

Randy swallowed and looked away. It was a cold reminder that when they found his son, he wasn't going to be in any shape to get himself out. He wished they'd brought Melissa, but she couldn't shoot and Scott hadn't wanted his mother anywhere near the alphas unarmed. While Randy couldn't blame him for it, it would have made him feel better to know medical attention was at hand, rather than a county away. 

"Right," he said after a moment, shoving the unhelpful thoughts away. "Then let's move." 

Boyd sniffed out their route, following a scent that Randy was pretty sure he didn't want to know about. The bunker complex was exactly the sort of rabbit warren that Boyd and Erica had described. There were even _levels_ ; Randy estimated they were at least forty feet underground after the third set of stairs. When he'd heard, Randy hadn't really believed them—how could something that big be hidden under a live forest without anyone in authority knowing about it?—but by the third turn, he was already lost. The walls were endless rounds of brick and dirt, marked by water damage and tree roots that had found their way into the hollow space.

They paused at one spot in the hallway. One of the walls had been dented from something heavy, like it was only drywall instead of brick. Blood stained the poured concrete floor in deep brown patches. It had been splashed up on the wall, too, arcs of splatter that Randy had to look away from before he started trying to analyze them. 

Kneeling down, Boyd's fingers touched the bloodstain. "Most of this isn't Stiles," he said slowly, eyes distant. "I think this is where we—where we split up."

"Where you left him behind, you mean," Chris put in, judgment a low threat in his voice. Boyd flinched. "Where you abandoned him to the alpha pack." 

Randy put his hand on the kid's shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "Drop it, Chris," he said. "He came back. That's more than a lot of full grown men would do." 

"No, he's right." Boyd shook his head and stood, lifting his chin to look Chris in the eye. "We lost control and ran. But if anyone's going to blame us for it, it's not going to be the guy whose family is just as bad as the alphas." 

Inwardly, Randy applauded the kid, and he would have outwardly if they had time. So he settled for patting Boyd's shoulder again. "You said you've been here before—can you remember the way?" 

"I can find it. Stiles' scent is really thick now." Boyd gave him a small nod of gratitude—presumably he'd learned how to be stoic from Derek, because Randy had never seen a kid so determinedly stern—before turning to lead them down the hall. 

There were more suspicious bloodstains. Smaller ones, mostly, the kind that came from someone bleeding as they moved. Randy tried not to pay too much attention to them, but they worried him. From what he'd seen, it wasn't from a werewolf, they healed too fast to leave very many marks like that. 

Chris seemed to be thinking the same thing. As they passed a corner that had a lot of the trailing splatters, he paused, looking down the way. "What's there?" he asked, using the barrel of his riffle to indicate the bloodier-than-average concrete. Unlike the rest of the corridors, there weren't any doors or lead-offs. It just turned, showing them a blank wall and too many questions.

Boyd froze, head turned to follow their line of sight. "Nothing you want to see," he finally said, voice quiet. 

Randy's eyes followed the tracing of blood. In some places, it was smeared, like whoever was doing the bleeding had just been dragged rather than walking under their own power. "Is it something we need to see, though?" he asked, not wanting to push, but not willing to pass up something that might be necessary. "You can wait here."

After first, it seemed like Boyd was going to refuse. His eyes had that look that Randy was starting to recognize from the last year of Scott's only recently explained weirdness. It was the expression of a werewolf barely in control of himself. After a minute, he just looked away, crossing his arms. 

Close enough to a yes. Randy gestured at Chris to come with him as he started following the blood splatter. Probably there wasn't werewolf nearby—Boyd would have warned them—but he wasn't going anywhere alone. That was how people died in horror movies, and Randy would like to think he wasn't the real life version of the person who ran upstairs instead of out the front door. 

Once past the turn, the hall wasn't even long. It dead-ended in a pair of metal doors that had obviously been set with some care. Most of the other doors they'd passed had been the thin, hollow sort that wouldn't have looked out of place in a house. They wouldn't have stood up to most humans, much less a werewolf. This door was thick, heavy metal, solid enough that it must have taken effort to hang. 

And it had visible dents in it. 

There was no easy way to open a door like that and hold his rifle ready, so Randy didn't try, trusting Chris to have his back. It was so heavy he needed both hands to pull—not push, since the hinges were on the outside and he really didn't want to think about what that suggested. 

It stopped being a suggestion as soon as the door was open. His stomach churned. 

"It's a containment room," Chris was saying, somewhere behind the ringing in Randy's ears. "Most werewolves have one, even if they don't need it yet." 

Containment room. Randy couldn't believe it was just that. Blood was _everywhere_. All of it old that he could see, but the concrete was too pitted and stained for it not to have been there for a while. On the inside, the dents in the door were worse than they'd seemed, three inches deep and wide as a man's shoulders. There were matching ones in the walls, overlapping, as if something had been thrown against them again and again and no one had ever bothered with repair work. The floor sloped gently toward the back, where a drainage grate had been set up, and there was a water line with a hose on the opposite wall. Part of him, the part that niggled at mysteries until they unraveled, wondered where the electric and water hookups were coming from, but it was drowned out by the horror. 

The room wasn't a dungeon. There was no sight of knives, or guns, or any of the more prosaic implements of pain he should have expected. But somehow the simplicity of it was worse. It had too many holes for his imagination to fill in. 

"They had my boy in here, didn't there?" he asked into the silence. Randy couldn't find any sign of Stiles, not anything he could recognize as Stiles, at least, but somehow he knew. People who had a room like that didn't _not_ use it. 

Chris wasn't the kind to pull punches. "Yeah," he said, clasping Randy's shoulder from behind. "They did. And we'll make them pay for it." 

Bile crawled up Randy's throat. "I'm not here for revenge." He shrugged Chris's hand off, turning away from the containment room. Boyd would be waiting, and so was Stiles. "I'm just here for my son." 

When he looked up, there was something he didn't like in Chris's expression. Disbelief, and maybe a little dark amusement. "It always starts out that way." 

There wasn't anything to say to that. 

Boyd was waiting. He didn't meet their eyes when they came back, just turned to lead the way. 

Randy was going to be back here, after they'd gotten Stiles out and the alphas were gone. There'd be an anonymous tip, and he'd find a reason to claim jurisdiction. Hot pursuit, maybe. He'd tear the whole place apart, find every body, every scrap of evidence, and he'd give as many families justice as he could if it took him the rest of his life. 

There weren't any more turns or stairs left, just a straight shot down one last hallway. Randy matched his pace to Boyd's, so he only noticed that the kid had started to slow down after he'd stepped past him. "What's wrong?"

Werewolf-yellow eyes met his, then slid away to stare at what looked like just another door to Randy. "I don't hear a heartbeat," Boyd said, reluctantly, like the words had to be dragged out of him. 

Fear that Randy had spent more than week fighting came back in a sick rush. "That means he's dead, doesn't it?" He had to make himself ask. The question was a dumb one, but he needed someone to say it. There weren't many things that no heartbeat could mean. 

Boyd shrugged, Randy's too tight shirt straining at the buttons. "It doesn't smell like death, but..." He shook his head. "I should be able to hear him by now." 

"Can you smell him?" Chris asked.

"If you knew what it was like in there..." Boyd shook his head. "I smell the room. I can't smell what's in it." 

Randy took a breath, and then another when the first wasn't enough air for his lungs. There was no bracing, though, so he finally had to give up. "Just show us," he said, voice thick and rough.

 _Maybe it's soundproofed,_ Randy told himself. _Maybe werewolf hearing isn't all it's cracked up to be. Maybe Stiles is just unconscious._

And maybe gravity would go out and the ocean would rain into the clouds. 

As it turned out, there were two doors. The first opened into what Randy could only call a laundry room—the old fashioned sort with buckets and washing boards, but still undeniably a laundry. It was totally dark; someone had even tacked weather stripping to the door to make sure no light got through. Randy's flashlight shown on old spiders webs and ancient boxes of detergent, a brand he vaguely remembered his mother using when he was a child. Like the boxes in the first room, it was covered with dust; clearly the alphas didn't make use of it. And at the far end was another door, hanging wide open. A stench that seemed to combine the worst of dirty laundry and the alley behind a bar wafted out, magnified by ten. 

Chris and Boyd held back by the first door, maybe knowing that whatever was in there he had to see it for himself first. Keeping his flashlight on the floor, he cross the laundry to stand in the open doorway. 

It took a real effort of will to look, to flick his light through the room. Wooden slats for bars, made out of some pale wood that Randy had to take on faith was the mysterious mountain ash that the werewolves talked about. A set of buckets, which was probably the source of most of the smell. More blood, in scattered corners, some smeared on the bars, but overall less than he would have expected. A glint of metal on the floor that, on further inspection, looked like someone's piercing. 

All of it sank in slowly, one detail at a time, as if were too much to take in as a whole. What took the longest was the open cage door, and what—exactly—was in the cage.

Nothing. Stiles was gone.

* * *

Derek smelled the hunting pack returning long before they actually came into view. They smelled like disappointment, worry and anger. What they didn't smell like was Stiles. 

He tilted his head to watch for them from where he was sprawled across the hood of the Camaro. Exhaustion dragged at his bones, made it impossible to do anything but exist. The others had taken spots on the car and in the dirt around him, equally unresponsive. If the hunting pack thought it was rude, he didn't really care. 

They'd spent three hours leading the alphas on a chase through the woods. None of them had come out of it well. Scott had a series of claw marks across his face that were still bleeding, and Erica's borrowed shirt was in shreds where she'd nearly gotten caught by one of the twin wolves. Even Peter, who was usually smart enough to duck, had a bruise that covered his face from jaw up to hairline.

If Chris Argent hadn't played the recorded howls when he had, distracting the alphas into returning to their den, Derek didn't doubt that they'd _still_ be running. 

And it was for nothing. Too late, too slow. Story of Derek's life. 

Scott smelled it too; he scrambled to his feet as Randy, Argent and Boyd came out from the tree line. "Where is he?" he demanded, looking from the humans to Boyd and back. Tension ran through him visibly, like a plucked guitar string. 

Randy sighed and shook his head. "He's gone, Scott."

"You mean he's dead," Derek corrected, turning to look back up at the sky. It was just dark enough that the Milky Way was visible. It would get covered as soon as the moon rose, but for the moment it was pretty. Better than looking Randy in the eye. 

"No, he means that Stiles isn't there," Argent said, sounding like he wanted to take a bullet to Derek just on principle. "We searched as much of it as we could. He's not there, and neither is his body." 

Derek made himself sit up in order to flash his teeth. Argent might have helped them with the kanima, but one moment of morality didn't mean Derek was going to trust him. "So, what, you think he got away? From a pack of alpha werewolves, on his own, while injured?" 

Randy winced, but squared himself and looked Derek in the eye, one alpha to another, even if that alpha was human. "Or they got rid of the body. We thought of that. But..." His lips pressed together in a thin, pale line. "There were plenty of bodies they didn't get rid of. No reason to think Stiles would be any different. That's not how serial killers work when they're human."

"Not how they work when they're werewolves, either." During a full moon, at their worst, werewolves were killers, not cannibals. It meant that when they were out of control, the bodies tended to stick around. If the alphas had been dumping them in one single place, then Stiles' would have been there.

Reluctantly, Derek slid off the hood of the car. Leaning against the front wheel where he could keep his shoulder touching Derek's calf, Isaac whined, but scrambled to his feet. The rest of the pack followed with various sounds of distress. They were just as tired as Derek—maybe more so, since they didn't have an alpha's endurance to back them up. 

But if Stiles _had_ gotten loose, that meant he was somewhere in the forest, with the alpha pack hunting for him. When they caught him, they wouldn't give him another chance to escape. 

Peter, who'd been perched on the other side of the hood, groaned and slid to his feet. He looked especially worn—he was less powerful than even the betas, and the alpha pack had seemed to have an especial interest in taking pieces from his hide. Which made sense; if Derek died, Peter would inherit the position of alpha again, and as alpha he was a lot more dangerous than Derek. If they wanted him dead, they needed to do it before they got Derek. 

Which was why Derek looked back over his shoulder and gestured Peter back down. "Stay here with the humans. Call if something happens." 

"Where are you going?" Argent demanded, hefting his riffle. The wolfsbane in his bullets stank like promised death; funny how Randy was carrying the same ammunition and it wasn't nearly as bad. 

"If Stiles is alive out there, we'll find him." 

"We're going with you," Argent argued, eyes narrowing. 

Randy, who had more common sense, was already taking a seat on the bumper of the SUV. "Sit down, Chris. We won't be able to keep up. Let them do what they can." 

Derek's eyes cut to Randy. He didn't want to say the chances of Stiles being out in the woods alone and alive; if he had escaped, there was nothing to keep the alphas from just running him down. But maybe it didn't have to be said; Randy nodded at him tiredly, a man without much hope, but who still had to cover every angle. Then Derek turned, leading the pack back into the woods. 

The run was slower than he would have liked. None of them really had the energy for another chase. Scott was the only one not lagging, and Derek suspected that it was mostly adrenalin and sheer stubborn determination keeping him going. Erica and Boyd ran together, shoulders brushing in silent support, and Isaac trailed behind. It wasn't the way a pack would run, but there was no time to beat out the issues between them. There might never be, the way things were going. 

They got as close to the alphas' den as they dared before Derek brought them to a halt. The pack would have already found the intruders' scents and would be on edge. No room for mistakes. "Spread out," Derek whispered as quietly as he could. Even that might be too much. "Circle. Don't draw attention to yourself by calling unless you're sure you've already been spotted. If you find a trail, mark the location and come back here when you're done."

Erica leaned in close to Boyd, clasping his hand briefly, but they obediently split up, going opposite ways. Isaac nearly followed Scott, but a low growl from Derek kept _that_ from happening. He'd already nearly lost Erica and Boyd to their own stupidity; they'd never truly accepted Derek as their alpha, so while that loss had stung, it wasn't too bad. But Isaac was _his_ , and Derek wasn't about to let Scott poach him. 

Derek stayed on the far edge of the circle they made, where a scent trail would be harder to find, if it existed at all. There were some signs; broken underbrush, claw marks left in tree bark. But when he sniffed them out, they mostly came from the alphas. A few were Erica and Boyd. One place smelled like Stiles, but it was weak and nearly covered by the smell of an alpha werewolf, probably from where they'd brought him in the first time. 

He gave in to the urge to rub up against the alphas' marks where he found them, crossing the gashes in the tree with his own and dragging his hand over scent trails. It wasn't his territory and he had no interest in making it his, but it would piss the alphas off. Petty sometimes had its place. 

Circuit complete, Derek went back to the marked spot to wait. Isaac and— _of course_ —Scott were already there, yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness.

"I found something," Isaac said, louder than he should have for actual stealth. 

Erica melted out of the shadows, down low where the eye tried to slide right off of her. "So did I," she whispered, staying crouched down. "There's a broken grate. I think it's the one Boyd and I used, but it smells like Stiles now." 

Boyd came from the other direction to stand near Erica, leaning so his thigh touched her shoulder. When Derek raised his eyebrows, he just shook his head. "Blood. Too much of it to know whose is whose."

That sounded... definitive. "Erica first," Derek decided, jerking his chin at her. If Stiles had escaped that way, it would give them a place to start. 

She nodded sharply and turned to lead the way, still staying down near the ground. Little noises made her skitter sideways nervously, but overall Erica took them in a straight line to the spot in question.

 _Broken_ didn't really do the damage justice. The grate and its metal backing had both been busted open from the inside. Deep rents in the metal showed where claws had ripped at it, and more furrows in the dirt completed the picture of a werewolf scrambling out. There were even a few visible stains on the sharp edges of the cut metal, where someone had scraped themselves bloody. Derek had to admit, it was a little impressive to see.

Keeping the pack upwind from the hole, Derek crouched next to it, sniffing carefully. Blood, yes, and werewolf, but laced under that was Stiles. The scent had changed, gotten darker, muskier, and it was so heavy with fear that Derek's claws ached. 

_Less than a day old,_ Derek decided, dragging his own claws across the marks on the ground as if he could erase them. Stiles had been there that morning. If they hadn't been delayed...

Nostrils flaring, he followed the scent. It led to the north, where the trees were clustered closest together. It zigzagged a little, crossed here and there by trails of the alphas, but it stayed on a steady course. Either they'd let Stiles run— _played chase_ , his traitorous thoughts reminded him, conjuring Kali's taunts from before—or he'd gotten out without being noticed. 

They came across a stream about three miles from the exit point—an amazing distance, under the circumstances, and further confirmation to Derek's mind that Stiles' escape had been allowed. Heavily injured and human, even if he'd gotten out on his own he would have been run down fast. The mud on the banks had been disturbed—there were more claw marks, and two deep indents that were clearly from someone landing on their knees, then a scramble of displaced dirt on the far side. Running water had ruined the scent, but the trail was easily visible. 

"This is what I found," Isaac said, crouching down near a large rock. Blood had been smeared across it. Stiles' blood, but not enough to have been a deathblow, and there was no scent of death in the area. 

Not that that meant anything. There were still plenty of chances to find a body. Derek stared down at the "He made it this far, at least."

Something bothered him about the tracks, though. It was a mess, highly visible, and the scent trail was so obvious a dead man could smell it. In the light of the rising moon, it almost looked like someone had started to carve a path through the leaves. 

Stiles wasn't dumb, and he had the kind of curiosity that got turned into warning tales to spook kids at night. He should have thought to hide his tracks, to stay in the water to mask his scent. Panicked people sometimes didn't think straight, but by three miles out the first blind rush would have been worn off.

Pressing his lips together, Derek hopped the stream and followed the line of torn dirt and displaced leaves. It went straight for a break in the trees—another stupid, frightened-animal move. Open space meant more room to run, but also more room to be caught. Derek went right up to the line of trees and paused, nostrils flaring.

The clearing was heavy with the scent of violent death. More than that, though, was the reek of Stiles and fear, thick enough to choke on. Moonlight showed dark, damp patches in thin grass, places where the ground had been torn up by claws. 

Derek touched one hand against Isaac's shoulder, as the one most likely to actually listen to him, before stepping out into the open. "Stay there. Watch my back." 

There was no sign of an enemy, but he still stayed on guard as he crouched down, touching the dirt with dull human fingers. It was soaked with blood, almost mud in some places, churned into froth from whatever fight had gone down. Even if it hadn't smelled of death, there was too much for everyone involved to have survived. 

Of course, Scott followed, as if he were deathly allergic to listening when Derek told him something. He knelt down beside the mess, far enough away not to get blood on his knees. 

"This is where..." Scott started, interrupting Derek's thoughts. In the moonlight, he'd gone pale, eyes huge and human. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Then so are they." Something on the wind tickled Derek's nose. A scent. He lifted his face, taking a deep breath. There was something there, faint, hard to track under the other odors. Leaves and branches crackled, soft noises that were just out of place for a clearing with five predators in it. His skin prickled. 

Back at the tree line, Isaac went still suddenly, head turning. Derek turned to follow his line of sight to the flick of motion, a glow of red eyes. _Alpha_ eyes. "There's—"

Before he could even finish, the werewolf in the trees was on the move, scrambling up the trunk, pale skin like a light post in the dark. As one, the pack dashed after it, following the movement overhead. They couldn't keep up; there were too many natural obstacles on the ground, and following through the trees would be like chasing someone in a maze. They'd lose him before they even got up to a stable branch. 

The scent of intruding alpha made Derek's lip curl and his teeth grow. _This_ was the enemy, not some useless tail-chase, not a hunt that could only have a bad end. Derek didn't do well with planning, but he could fight. 

Then Erica and Boyd were stumbling, transformed into their full beta forms. "It's Stiles," Erica panted around a mouthful of teeth, golden eyes wild. "It's—I don't know how I know, but it's _Stiles_ —" 

Lifting his head, Boyd howled. The resonances were all wrong, like drinking milk that had just started to go sour. It was a pack call, a cry from a beta to his alpha.

It wasn't Derek that Boyd was calling.

Far ahead, an answering cry started, and then choked off half-way through. Tree branches cracked, and then the woods were silent again.

* * *

Everything was new. Frightening. Overwhelming. Too many smells and tastes and sounds, and there was blood on his claws and in his teeth, tacky and cold, but reassuring. He could fight now. Run. No one would hurt him again. No one would hurt his pack. Claws dug into the ground, tearing runnels into spring-loose dirt. The moon was just starting to peek over the tops of the trees, soft and new, waning, but he could still feel its pull in his bones.

He hid behind the trees, crouching low to stay out of sight as he watched his hunters. He didn't want to hide, but he was scared. Confused. Nerves fluttered anxiously, fear a cold tight ball that screamed _run hide fight kill fight fight run_. This wasn't the same pack that taken him, hurt him, but it was an _alpha_. A rival, an enemy, like the others.

But they had his pack.

The other alpha, big dark sad-alpha smelling of smoke and loss was on to him; he could see it in the hunch of his shoulders, how his hackles rose when he scented the wind. Betas hovered nearby, gold eyes glowing in the moonlight as they searched for his trail. The other two were there, the dark-skinned one and the light-skinned female, the betas who'd been with the alphas, who'd been in the cage with him. _His_ betas.

A deeper growl rose in his throat. _His_ _He'd_ freed them. He'd protected them. They were _his_. Possessive anger curled in his stomach, battling with the fear. He wanted to reclaim them, to _fight_. 

_His his his his—_

One of the betas tensed, eyes turning his way. It wasn't much, but it spooked him. Leaping, he sunk his claws into the trunk of the tree, scaling it to the top and then leaping to the next tree over. The betas called each other in the nonsense noises they used, but he was already running, high above, _safe_. 

Below there was a howl, low and familiar, tugging him almost like the moon did. _Friend_ , it said. _Pack_. He snarled, strangling the answering howl in his throat, and kept running. Branches and leaves crunched below, but the other alpha wasn't in the pack, hadn't caught him yet. Wouldn't catch him. Not again. 

He ran until the sad-alpha stopped chasing, until the betas fell back and couldn't see him anymore. Then he circled, staying up in the trees to peer down while they made noises at each other. His pack stayed together with one of the others, shoulders hunched, smelling of sadness and distress. 

One of them, the beta making the loud noises at the other alpha, smelled almost like pack. He remembered that one, remembered games and hiding somewhere tight and close and warm back when he'd been small and something terrible had happened. That one was his pack too. He could feel it, a yank in his gut that made him want to go down and challenge the other alpha, to snap and snarl and make him leave them alone. It wasn't like the other two—that one didn't need protection, not the same—but he knew, _knew_ that they'd been pack _before_. 

"We can't leave him here!"

"We don't have a _choice_ , Scott!" Sad-alpha snapped out an arm toward the three betas that were huddled together. "They're in no condition to try and take down a feral werewolf. He has the advantage right now, and unless we want to get someone killed, we're going to have to come back later."

"It's Stiles!" The little brave beta puffed out his chest, noises getting louder. "What advantage?"

"Could you kill him?"

"What? No!" 

The sounds almost made sense, almost carried the sort of tone a howl did. Something familiar. He cocked his head, listening. It sounded like nonsense, but... Anger. Grief. Fear. Other things, too, but those three were strongest. 

Maybe it wasn't just noises. 

"That's his advantage." Red eyes flashed as the alpha poked the beta pack a step. "Ferals are unpredictable. The way he is right now, he might kill you. And if we're going to catch him alive, we need to be ready. We have his pack. We can find him again."

"His pack?" 

"Erica and Boyd." Sad-alpha turned his head to look to the three small ones. "They're his now." 

Disgust. Sadness. Loneliness. His claws scraped the branch under him, and he had to bite back a growl that would give him away. The other alpha didn't want to _hurt_ his pack. He wanted to steal them. 

Go. He needed to go, to run, to find a den and hide. The territory wasn't his, it was _theirs'_ , the alpha pack's. Lingering felt like a challenge, but he couldn't leave his pack with the sad-alpha. _They_ were his. 

But the alpha was rounding up the betas and herding them away. Keeping above, where it was safe, he followed. They moved slow, running on two legs, making it easy to keep up. A few times he had to go around to keep from being spotted, and one time he had to leave the trees, but he always found them again.

They led him to a place that smelled like burning and metal, sick things over fake rock road. _Cars_ , he knew, but they'd never smelled like _that_. Three new scents waited there—there was one that was all acrid heat and crushed plants, anger and _hardmeanhurt_ smells. And there was a werewolf whose scent he didn't recognize but who he remembered from _before_ and whose face made him want to run and attack at the same time. Used to be alpha, but _badsickwrong_ alpha, now... weak. Still dangerous, but not a challenge. He smelled cold, empty. Empty-wolf, not there at all. 

The third scent kept him from running. It was _home_. More sharp-bitter, heavy with grief. _Pack_. Not wolf—no fur-scent, no musk of predator, but his pack. _Father_. Someone to protect, a memory of warm arms and safe places, shared sadness and hurts made better. 

He lingered in the trees while they made more sounds at each other. Not-wolf pack, _father_ , talked with the other alpha, low and quiet, but still firm. As he watched, sad-alpha backed down, hackles raised but eyes low.

That made him preen and lean forward in the tree proudly. _His_ pack mate could face down another alpha. 

Maybe it wasn't an enemy alpha. If father-not-wolf could challenge him and win, he couldn't be dangerous. If sad-alpha was weak, maybe it was okay. No reason to be scared.

Then they split, his two betas from the dark place and the brave one— _his_ pack, too, not from the dark place but from _before_ —going with the father-scent and the hunter. The curly-haired beta went with sad-alpha and the empty-not-alpha, climbing into a big metal noisy thing and rushing out with a sound that hurt his ears. The bigger metal thing— _car_ —left more quietly.

Dropping to the ground, he followed his pack, keeping back where he was hidden. It was a long run, but his knee only hurt sometimes, and the big thing moved slow. It was harder, when woods went away and stone-den-things— _buildings_ —took over. There weren't places to hide. He had to fall so far back that he couldn't see them anymore, had to pick out the scent of car-with-pack out of thousands of car-without-pack. 

But he did it, tracing them all the way to a big building in a quiet place, surrounded by buildings like it. _Home_. He got there in time to see the brave beta run off to another place, and the father-not-wolf herd the other two inside. Their heartbeats were quiet as they moved around the building, playing in water and doing other things that made noises he couldn't quite understand. 

He waited until the heartbeats slowed into sleep, tucked in where bad-alphas couldn't get them. Before leaving, he circled the home where his pack slept, rubbing against trees and walls, pissing on the car that smelled of his father-not-wolf, clawing marks in wood for anyone to see. _Hishishis_ no one else's. Then he ducked off, slipping around cars and over fences to do the other place, where the brave beta was sleeping. It wasn't as much _his_ as the den-home, but he marked it up anyway.

After scenting the two most important places, he darted through buildings and up paths, leaping up to roofs and then across to walls, trailing his scent everywhere with brushes and rubs. He remembered it from before, the places that were heavy with ownership in his mind. He had to explore it, to mark it and make sure it was safe for his pack, make sure the bad alphas would know to stay away. 

The places he remembered best he made sure spend the most time on, but there was a lot to cover. Buildings and roads and trees, open places and places so close together it felt like the dark place again. In some spots, he found _his_ pack's old scents, places they'd been there before. His father-not-wolf's was _everywhere_ —on buildings and cars, and heavy on places that smelled like fat and meat and other good things to eat. Those spots he left alone, since they were already marked. 

His brave beta even had a second den-home, one that smelled like acrid-pain and bad memories under the all-over cover of his beta. He didn't like it, not at _all_ , but the brave beta's scent was three days old, so he took time there, too, even pissing on that car though his beta never had. 

But it wasn't just his pack. The sad-alpha had places too—spots where he'd rubbed and left his scent all over, a couple where he'd pissed. They took up almost as much space as the father-scent, with layers of marks on each other where the sad-alpha came back to renew them. Those he covered up aggressively, even going so far as to dig up spots that were the worst. Sad-alpha might not be a threat, but he wasn't _pack_.

Even with his pack's marks taken care of, it took a long time to finish. With his hurts still sharp and badly healed, he couldn't move fast, and he was tired from having run so much. It took so long that he had to pause catch and eat a yowling, hissing ball of fur that ended up being less meat than it had seemed. He crouched down in a place with lots of cars, near the buildings that smelled like people and sex and mess, hiding between cars as he picked hot meat from skinny bones.

As he ate, another car came in. Carrying his meal with him, he crept forward to peer out of his hiding place. A person—another not-wolf—got out of the new car, making it beep. 

_Hate. Enemy_ Memories of hurt and anger curled inside of him. _This_ person was bad. Cruel-sick, would hurt his pack without claws or teeth. Older, like _his_ father-not-wolf, but stringy and angry and _bad_. 

Needed to chase him off, make him _go away_. He growled, easing forward, claws clicking on pavement. 

Bad-not-wolf froze, looking around. "Who— who's there?" 

In a rush, he leaped, roaring his anger as his claws shredded cloth and skin. Hot blood splashed up across his arms, onto his chest when he crouched low. The enemy screamed and went down easily, easier than his dinner had. He twisted onto his belly to protect it, but that left his back wide open. Claws went through skin easily, tearing the enemy open. 

Nearby, someone shouted loud. Ringing, screaming noises cut through the air. He roared a challenge and ran, hopping over cars and vanishing into the darkness between buildings.


	5. In Loving Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With huge, ginormous thanks to RatherAStory, who got this back to me incredibly fast.
> 
> In vaguely related news, I'm not sorry.

Randy pinched the bridge of his nose. The hospital lights were too bright, the antiseptic hurt his nose and every sound threatened to turn his headache into a migraine.

Even worse was the man he had to talk to. Some things weren't worth getting out of bed for. "So let's go over this one more time. What did your attacker look like?" 

Adrian Harris was, officially, one of the worst people he knew. And that was besides the hell he made Stiles' life. He was one of the types who called out a deputy on his neighbors when a tree had grown a little too long over the fence, or when someone's kid had dared leave a shoe print on his driveway. Usually, whoever was on duty rolled dice for the pleasure of dealing with him. 

On only three hours of sleep, after having found out that his son had become an _alpha werewolf_ —something Randy was still trying to deal with—Harris was the last person he wanted to deal with. But the call had come in over the radio, and it had been just odd enough that he'd put his pants back on and gone to check it out.

"I didn't see much," Harris repeated for the third or fourth time. He was covered with bandages, some on his face, others littering his arms and chest. Most of the damage had been to his back and—Randy took a little pleasure in noting—his ass. The nurses had had to lay him on his front for the interview. "Pale. Pale clothes, pale skin. I didn't see his eyes or hair. And he was fast. I think it was some kid freaked out on drugs. He got me from behind. I didn't see anything after I went down. Then he just started stabbing me. I already spoke with Officer Dane. Aren't you supposed to be on leave searching for that delinquent of yours?"

"Just keeping myself busy," Randy ground his teeth. A headache from sleep-deprivation pounded behind his eyes, and coffee wasn't helping. But the alternative was to reach for his gun, and that was just bad form when questioning a victim. Even if that victim made it so incredibly tempting. "Your wounds aren't consistent with any sort of knife or bladed weapon. The doctors yet, but they're inclined to think that it's from some sort of wild animal. Evidence found in the area suggests the same. Are you _certain_ this was a person?"

Harris glared. It was a D-minus glare, at best. Randy had gotten worse from _Scott_ , and being glared at by Scott was like being glared at by a bag of marshmallows. "Yes," Harris hissed balefully. "A young man. Probably one of my idiot students, frying the few brain cells they have." 

Randy pointedly made a note of the victim's certainty, right next to the one that said _mountain lion_ in the brackets he'd privately assigned to mean _werewolf_.

Other questions itched in the back of his mind as he finished the questioning. He tried to ignore them. Stiles was sixty miles away, not safe, but _away_. And all of the other werewolves in town were accounted for. Some of them were even asleep in his own home. Were there other betas in town, or were the alphas maybe branching out?

But still... There'd been a lot of bodies, and Harris was the first person to come away able to talk about it. "One more question, Mr. Harris, and I'll leave you to recover." Randy flipped his notepad closed and smiled as blandly as he could, trying to look like just an officer doing his duty, nothing else. It was hard. No wonder Stiles had been so bad at it. "Did your assailant bite you, by any chance?" 

Harris gave him a hard look that said clearly that Randy's attempt at nonchalance failed. "What kind of question is that?" 

"A pertinent one." Randy fought to keep his smile on. _Just keep it up and get out of here, dignity intact._ "You mentioned that you thought your attacker was on drugs. Addicts in the middle of a violent episode have been known to use the weapon that comes most easily to predators." When the man only blinked, Randy pressed again. "Their teeth, Mr. Harris." 

Beady eyes narrowed, and Harris' already unpleasant expression soured even more. "No, the little druggie didn't _bite_ me."

"That's good to hear." And he was done. Standing, Randy nodded down at the man. "We'll do our best to find whoever did this to you." 

He left Harris moaning to the nurse about wanting more painkillers. It was amazing the man hadn't been fired yet. God knew Randy had pushed for it, but he had some sort of in with the school board.

At least he hadn't been bitten. The last thing that anyone needed was that kind of asshole with a lycanthropy problem. Randy didn't want to fall into the confirmation bias trap and claim it was a werewolf but...

It was a werewolf.

To his surprise, Melissa was waiting by the hospital doors. He almost walked past her—she was dressed in her own version of civvies, jeans and a blouse. They made her blend in enough that he had to back up a step when she called his name. 

"Melissa, hi. What are you doing out here at..." Randy checked his watch, squinting in the odd light of near-dawn. "Jesus, five in the morning?" 

"Three AM Facebook is a terrible habit, but it's better than cigarettes. Heard we had another 'wild animal' attack." She made the air quotes with a little dip in the knees that made Randy's eyebrows rise. "Come on, nurses gossip almost as bad as cops. I wanted to see if there was anything we should worry about, and figured either you'd be here or I could look into it for you. Two for one bargain." 

"I'm fine. But thanks." He smiled at her, jerking his head to the parking lot. "We can get coffee and talk about..." Mimicking her motion, he made air quotes. "Wild animals." 

Laughing, Melissa fell into step easily beside him, hands stuffed in her pockets and purse swinging from her shoulder. There was a coffee shop nearby, fed almost entirely on the wages of hospital workers and visitors. It never closed, as far as he knew. 

They didn't talk on the walk, but it was nice, having someone to talk to if he wanted. He still hadn't finished wrapping his head around the whole werewolves thing. Melissa was only a little more old-hat at it than he was, but at least she was on the same level as him: a worried parent on the outside of everything, trying to peer in and understand. She wasn't a teenager trying to be more grown up than they really were, or a case like Derek, whose good intentions were made of the stuff that paved roads to Hell.

There was really no private place to sit, so as soon as they got their coffee they went to lean against the building outside like the truants they used to be. It was still early enough that cars didn't pass by often. When they did, the noise was audible well before the car's headlights cut through the dark.

Melissa sipped her iced-mocha-sugar-fest monstrosity, staring out over the street. "So. How're you holding up?" 

Randy followed her line of sight, weighing his answers. He decided on the most truthful; God knew he couldn't be honest with anyone else these days. "Badly."

"Scott's been keeping me up to date on everything. I feel like I should get you a present." In the corner of his eye, she made a face and lifted one hand, waggling the fingers dramatically. "Welcome to the freak show. Here's a flea collar and a list of things to watch out for. Don't let them near water or feed them after midnight." 

He laughed, almost burning himself on his coffee. "Really?" Randy asked, looking over at her. "All the jokes in the world, and you went for gremlins?"

"Hey!" Melissa's elbow dug into his rib. "At least your son's an alpha. Big dog on campus. Meanwhile, I have to drive by the Argent place once a night to make sure mine's not pining himself to death on his ex-girlfriend's roof." 

"He _doesn't_." 

Expression tightly stern, like she had to fight back a grin, Melissa nodded. "He does. Every night but the last few. I'm pretty sure she knows. Caught her watching us drive off a few times. Scott won't talk about it, of course. Kids." 

Shaking his head, Randy took a bracing sip of coffee. It was hot, black and strong enough to strip paint: perfect. "When Stiles gets back, I might have to pay your gas money to drive by the Martin place on your way."

It took him a moment to realize what he'd said, for his throat to catch and his eyes to burn. He blinked it away, looking down at his drink. As always when the hard parts came, he wished to God that Ariana hadn't died. She'd been the one who was good at parenting, who always knew what to say while he just stumbled from one problem to the other. Werewolves would have rolled right off her back, and he wouldn't have bet a dollar on the ones who took Stiles lasting the night once she found them. 

Melissa put her hand on his elbow. "They'll find him," she said quietly, giving his arm a squeeze. "Scott—Stiles is the closest thing he has to a brother. He'll bring him back." 

"I don't know how I'm going to do this," he confessed. "I can't... he's my boy."

"I know." The arm moved from his elbow to around his shoulders. "You're doing better than I did." 

Randy shook his head, side-eying her. "I find that hard to believe."

"Girlscout's honor." Three fingers came up in a salute. "When we have time, we'll go out for drinks and I'll tell you how I spent a week acting like a damned idiot. It'll cheer you right up."

Smiling, Randy reached over to tap their cardboard cups against one another. "It's a date."

* * *

Boyd wasn't surprised that the Stilinski house smelled like Stiles. What did surprise him was that it smelled so strongly of Stiles. 

When they'd arrived the night before and Mr. Stilinski had shown them where they'd be sleeping, Boyd had been too tired to pay attention to much more than the idea of a bed. It had been so long that he'd nearly forgotten what one felt like. Even if it was just a fold-out couch, it was a world better than the forest floor or the cement of the cage. Erica had been told to take the guest bedroom, but she'd migrated out to the living room and Boyd before he'd even had a chance to miss her. 

It had been a good night.

But once Boyd had woken up, it was impossible to miss the absolute _miasma_ of Stiles. He hadn't remembered it being that bad when they'd gone to sleep, but he'd been exhausted. A marching band could have gone through and he would have missed it. It was worse than Derek's scent on the old Hale place—at least that was out in the open, where the weather kept it from getting too bad. 

Boyd opened his eyes and thought he might choke. It couldn't have been thicker if he'd bottled it and sprayed the furniture like Febreeze. Outside the birds were chirping, and sunlight was streaming in through the windows. It was a little surprising not to see it bouncing off the fog of odor. 

Erica smelled it too. She wrinkled her nose where it was pressed into his shoulder. "Urgh," she grumbled., burrowing in where it was, presumably, safe. Her nails dug into his arm, holding him in place beside her. "Wake me up when we're not in the boy's locker room."

"If I have to suffer, so do you." Boyd gave her a poke, then a kiss when that didn't work. She sighed, but let him sit up, shifting her grip to his pillow instead. "We should call Derek. Tell him we're awake."

"Derek's already here."

Boyd didn't jump. He did glare at Scott, who was poking his head around the edge of the kitchen and grinning. "Warn a guy."

"But it's so much fun," Scott grinned, waving a bag with a familiar logo as he stepped out of thee kitchen. "I grabbed some donuts before coming here, and made some coffee." 

"Donuts?" Erica twisted to eye Scott, still keeping her nose buried and the rest of her hidden under the quilt. Her hair was a mess of blond, tangled curls that arched up over both their pillows. Derek hadn't had a decent brush she could use the day before, and Boyd had only been so much help with the comb. "Do they taste like Stilinski? Because I like the kid, but this is too much. Is he always this bad? I'm thinking I might have to apply for a less smelly alpha." 

Scott's face did something complicated that Boyd couldn't quite translate. It looked like he either wanted to laugh or hide. "You'll need to talk to Derek about that." 

Usually, Scott wasn't the type to hold back information. Boyd raised his eyebrows and waited expectantly. 

It didn't take long. Scott squirmed, then fidgeted with the bag, and finally broken. "Stiles was here last night!" he blurted out. "Derek said he's been all over town, but it's worst here because it's his home. He, uh..." Red crawled across Scott's cheeks. "He _ruined_ it, whatever that means." 

Erica was kinder than Boyd in some ways. "It means Derek's pissed and we'll have to pry answers out of him. Now." Without lifting up off the pillow, she stretched out a hand, flapping it imperiously. "Give me a donut." 

They scarfed down the donuts and coffee. Other than the burger and fries from the day before, they were maybe the best food Boyd had ever had. He suspected that they'd eaten something on the full moon, since neither of them had been hungry when they woke, but the only meals Boyd remembered for the past three weeks had been oatmeal. Sugary, sticky donuts were a godsend by comparison.

Once they'd cleaned up their sticky fingers, they went into the backyard where Derek was waiting with Isaac. Peter wasn't anywhere in sight, and Boyd couldn't help being a little relieved at that. He hadn't been one of the people affected by Peter's actions in the fall, but the man was just creepy.

Derek had an expression on his face like he wanted to punch something. Specifically, the scratches that had been dug into the tree outside Stiles' bedroom window. The bare wood oozed sap where the bark had been peeled off. 

Boyd stared at the tree for a minute, then looked around the rest of the yard. He'd never been at the Stilinskis' place before, so it was hard to see what was different. Maybe a few places where the bushes had been disturbed, some claw marks in the grass. Overhead, the blue tarp that had been used to cover the broken window flapped in the breeze, one corner tied a little looser than the others. 

"So, Stiles did this?" Crouching down, Erica poked the oozing sap, then wrinkled her nose. "Why?"

"He's claiming territory," Derek explained, voice tight and pinched. If anything, his expression just got more frustrated. "Challenging me for it."

"Wait, you mean by, like, covering up your scent with his own?" Scott asked, then blinked innocently when they all looked at him. "What? I work in a vet's office. It's all Animal Planet all the time in the waiting room."

"I didn't know werewolves did that." That was a little too close to the wild side for Boyd's taste. He hadn't signed up for something that involved the urge to piss on things that were his. "You never mentioned." 

"You already do it, you just don't realize it." Derek turned his head just slightly to stare pointedly at where Scott was leaning against the building. As soon as he did, Scott straightened up, looking deeply horrified. "It's instinct. It's just stronger for alphas." 

"So what does it mean?" Isaac looked as freaked out as Boyd felt about this Brand New Information. He'd wrapped his arms around his waist and looked like he was trying not to touch _anything_. "He's here. Can we just track him down? Like in the woods?" 

Derek shrugged. It was never a good sign when Derek shrugged. It meant he'd been reduced to guessing, and he didn't want to have to admit that he didn't know what the hell he was doing. He'd shrugged a lot in the days before Boyd and Erica had broken off from the pack. "Too many trails," he said. "We'd chase him all over town and never find him. We're going to have to search on foot."

The toe of Derek's boot nudged the damage to the tree. 

He smiled.

* * *

Derek kept his eyes and ears open as he paced through the school grounds, looking for any signs of a denning werewolf. Like everywhere else, the school had been marked up like a cheap date piling on cologne. When Stiles made a statement, he made it loudly. Scott walked a few feet away, head down and not paying as much attention as he should have. 

He'd sent his three betas—or, more accurately, his single beta and two former betas—out to comb Beacon Hills, with instructions to check in with their families and get the Sheriff off his back about _missing children_. Derek didn't need to deal with them just then, not when his territory was covered in the stench of a challenger, and they'd obviously switched allegiance sometime between running off and coming back. Scott's house had been ringed with scent too, making Stiles' opinion on Scott's standing obvious, but Scott had switched between being in Derek's pack and out of it so much that it didn't sting to lose him to another alpha. Stiles had practically been Scott's pack to start with, after all. 

"Derek?" 

It had probably been too much to hope for that Scott would keep quiet for the day. He didn't look up from peering into a hollow place between close-set buildings, a little service walkway where a frightened werewolf might think to nest. "What?" 

Scott scuffed his feet against the pavement, heartbeat hitching nervously. "What did you mean, when you said Stiles was challenging you?" 

"Don't ask questions you've already answered." There was no sign that Stiles had been there. Maybe a few light claw marks, but they could have been left by anything. It reeked of teenage sex, awkward fumbling between classes, sweat, and hormones. If Derek had been a feral wolf looking for somewhere to hide, he wouldn't have picked it either. 

Of course, Stiles had plenty of places to choose from. Going by the way he'd been marking things, he'd decided that the whole town and the surrounding woods were his. It itched under Derek's skin, made him want to snap at things. Bad enough with the alpha pack painting on his door, they'd never been so crass as to piss over his scent. 

"I mean for _us_." Scott's voice started to rise dangerously. "As werewolves. Does that mean you're going to have to fight? Like the alpha pack?" 

Derek twisted to glare at him. Scott had his hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts, but his eyes were starting to lighten dangerously. Obviously he'd been overthinking. _Which is a nice change for Scott,_ he thought a little meanly.

"No," Derek said slowly, dredging up the tiny bit of patience he had to spare. Sometimes he had to work to remember that Scott hadn't been born to a pack, didn't ask for the bite and really didn't want to be a werewolf. The whole idea mystified Derek a little—he'd been raised to think of the bite as the best thing that could happen to a human, as an invitation into the pack and everything that stood for. Someone who _didn't_ want it was just bizarre. "Not unless Stiles wants to fight. We're werewolves, not animals. We can work together if we want to. Alphas can share territory, or even a pack."

"Then why is he doing it?"

Derek's eyes rolled so hard that they actually hurt. "Because he _is_ an animal right now. That's what feral means. We'll work it out once he's himself again."

"What does that mean?" 

Bracing his hands on his knees, Derek stood, straightening his shoulders and drawing himself to his full height. Either Scott was deliberately trying to be annoying, or going for a Master's in Asking Obvious Questions. "Stiles is running around naked right now because he doesn't have the self-control to put on pants. What do you _think_ it means?"

Scott stared back at him, jaw set belligerently. "I think it means that you never told us how this whole werewolf thing actually _works_. Stiles is out there doing God knows what, and you don't seem very worried about it! He could be killing a classroom of kindergartners for all we know!"

"Believe me, I'm worried." Derek's lips pulled back to bare his teeth. He took a step in closer to Scott. "But he's not _killing a classroom of kindergartners_. That's not how this goes."

As always, Scott didn't seem to register the threat. He kept his eyes on Derek's. "Then how _does_ it go, Derek? Because right now, I don't know and you never explain." 

Maybe Scott had a point. That didn't mean Derek had to admit it. "I don't have time to explain," he said, stepping back and turning away. There were more places to search; they'd barely gotten started. Behind him, he heard the scuff of Scott's shoes as he followed in Derek's trail, far enough back that it was clear he didn't really want to. "You want to know what's going on in your friend's head right now? Think of him as a dog. He's alone, he's scared, and he's going to want to find somewhere safe to hide for a while. But he's not dangerous unless he's threatened, and right now he's more likely to run than fight as long as he doesn't have a reason to."

There wasn't an answer, but the sound of Scott following him didn't let up, so Derek chalked it up as a good talk and let it go.

They didn't speak again until after they'd finished with the school and had moved on to the cluster of coffee shops and fast food places that Derek remembered spotting Stiles at sometimes. They were faster, more perfunctory searches. Unlike the school, they didn't stay quiet long enough for Stiles to have found someplace safe to settle, but Derek wasn't willing to overlook them just because of that. Food was a powerful lure, and the scent of fried food was even better. If there _was_ a quiet hiding place, it would have been a good spot for a den. 

Unfortunately, there wasn't a hiding place—even the dumpsters were in a busy area, where people liked to cut through on their way between some nearby apartments and Main Street. Derek and Scott got more than one look for poking around in it. 

Which was, of course, when Scott decided to stop sulking. "What do you think made him this way?" he asked suddenly, nearly startling Derek into knocking his head against the side of the dumpster. He leaned back to look at Scott, who was prying the lid open on the dumpster behind the coffee shop. "I mean—you talk about it like it happens a lot." 

No rest for the wicked. One day, Derek was going to corner Peter and ask what the Hell he'd been thinking, biting _McCall_. Having been insane at the time wasn't an excuse.

"Not a lot," Derek said, after a serious debate with himself on the benefits of leaving Scott behind and just searching on his own. It would have just caused more problems than it solved, though. "You know how sometimes being a human gets in the way of being a wolf?"

Scott, the werewolf who never wanted to be, just slipped out of the dumpster he was searching and shook his head. 

Groaning, Derek tilted his head back and tried to think of things in human terms. There'd been human members of his family, but they'd grown up with it, the same way he had. He'd never had to explain things to _them_. "Like Allison," he finally settled on. "There's times when you want to just... hold her hand, right? Make out, kiss, do normal teenager stuff. And then there's times you want to chase her, or have her chase you, right? Just... let go." 

Deep, blushing red crawled up Scott's cheeks, along with an expression of utter mortification. He looked ready to run, like if Derek made a sudden move he'd be out of there in a second. Which was another human thing that Derek never really got his mind around; it was hard to hide sex in a family a werewolves, so there'd never been any point in being embarrassed by it. 

It was something else he'd probably need to sit down with Scott and the betas about one day if he couldn't make Peter do it, but today was about Stiles, not The Talk. 

He wished Laura were there. She'd been a master of making things sound normal and human. "How about chasing a rabbit?" Derek tried again. "You're not hungry, you're talking with your friends and there's no reason for you to want it. But it runs, and you want to hunt, and you can't help yourself. I know it happens, I've seen you."

"Yeah, but that's weird," Scott said, but his heartbeat settled down from its attempt at a land-speed record. "People don't chase rabbits."

" _Humans_ don't," Derek corrected. A car honked loudly behind them, making Scott jump, but Derek stayed still, letting his calm ease Scott's nerves. He might not have been Scott's alpha, but he was _an_ alpha, and that still had power. "Wolves do. And _you_ don't, because humans don't. But later, you might, if you're in the woods and there's no reason not to. That's what being a werewolf is—being human _and_ a wolf, and picking which to be and when to be it."

Thought twisted Scott's eyebrows together. His back hit the other dumpster with a loud, hollow noise. Slowly he slid down until he was sprawled on the ground across from Derek. "But what does that have to do with Stiles?" he asked quietly. 

"Imagine that you _need_ to chase that rabbit." Derek's claws scratched into the dirty asphalt. He watched Scott out of the corner of his eye. Hopefully the kid would get it; Derek couldn't think of another way to explain if the rabbit thing fell through. "You're starving, there's no other food, and it's right in the middle of the street. You can't do it as a human—you're not fast enough to catch it without changing. But you can't let yourself go enough to be a wolf, either—too many social rules, people will find out what you are, whatever.

"When there's that kind of conflict, you snap." He dug his claws into the asphalt for emphasis, leaving long furrows behind. "It's when there's something you need to do that you're too human _to_ do. So your humanity just goes away for a while. You forget. That's what going feral is."

Scott drew up his knees and looked down at his shoes, leaving Derek to stare at the top of his head. There was no indication on his face that he actually _got_ it, that it wasn't going straight over his head. But it was the best Derek could do. 

When the question came, it was almost lost to the sound of traffic behind them. "Is that what happened to Peter?" Scott asked slowly. "Was he— did he go feral?" 

"Revenge is a human thing," Derek said shortly. "If anything, Peter went the other way." 

"Oh." Scott's shoulders hunched in closer, and Derek could feel the question coming. "How do we fix him? Stiles, I mean." 

"We don't." Scott's head whipped up, brown eyes huge and betrayed, and Derek cursed himself for saying the wrong thing again. "We _can't_ , Scott. This is what he needs. We can keep him safe until he doesn't need it anymore. That's all." 

Derek was sure that Scott was going to argue, or say something stupid about Stiles not _needing_ to be a wolf, like someone who'd done everything he could to reject what he was had anything to say about what someone else needed. Instead, Scott ran his hand through his hair and stood up, jamming his hands into his pockets. 

"Come on. There's a spot in the woods he likes to park and think. I'll show you."

* * *

He curled up in a comfortable corner, waiting. Rotting wood creaked overhead, smelling of old death and fire and not-his-den, his scent overlaid on sad-alpha's. The deep gold light of the sun slanted through broken slats to make warm places on his skin. 

It had been a good day. There'd been good things to eat and cool breezes and soft places to lie. And then he'd found the den, the place where the sad-alpha's scent had been thickest, and had nested down, waiting for him to come back for the challenge. It would be quick, and once it was done the territory would be all safe and all his and he could protect his pack from the bad-alphas. 

The plan was vague, more a series of urges that could go _this_ way or _that_. Either he would win or he would take his pack somewhere else. If he won, either the other alpha would stay and be pack, or he would go and take his pack with him. It was simple. Easy. 

Before hadn't been so easy. Which felt... odd. Wrong. He wanted to remember it better, but when he tried it seemed complicated. Simpler to not try.

Something outside made a noise. A shadow cut through the sunbeams. Then another. It was a little thing, but instantly he went on alert. The breeze was coming from his back, carrying away the scent of whatever was casting the shadow. 

The noises outside stopped. Wood creaked on the porch, and then someone pushed open the door. "Well, if this isn't a surprise. I thought you'd still be off in the woods hunting rabbits. You just stay there. Maybe we can do two birds with one stone, eh?" 

One of the alphas from the place with the cage stepped in. He smelled like anger, like slimy things and pain. Something heavy was in his hand, bright red and sloshing like water. 

He growled, climbing to his feet. There were lots of ways out, he wasn't trapped, but he didn't like the smell of the stuff in the red thing. Its scent hurt his nose, burned deep up inside it like it would scald his eyes from behind. The smell had memories attached—it was a _bad_ thing. He didn't know how it was bad, but it was, and he wanted it to go away.

Angry-alpha lifted the red thing up, and his growl got louder, eyes tracking the threat. When he heard, the alpha's eyes went wide and he slowly lowered it. His growl went quiet, but never really went away.

"You might be feral, but you're not stupid, are you? You know what this is." Red like the bad-smell thing flashed in the alpha's eyes. "Life lesson, cookie: you can't always get what you want." 

The thing came up again, and he moved, throwing himself forward with a howl. Angry-alpha staggered backward as he barreled into his chest. The stuff in the red thing splashed upward. Everywhere it touched burned, turning his skin dark. He didn't stop attacking, using his body and claws to force the other alpha back through the door, rolling with him until leaves crunched under them and the stuff was spilling all over. 

Two other alphas were outside, the twin-alphas. They rushed them, but he'd already knocked the red thing over, pushing it and its bad-hurt-smell as far away from the den as he could. Claws slashed his back and he snarled, snapping at his attackers. Blood splashed, and there was meat between his teeth that ripped and tore _so good_. Angry-alpha roared, twisting to try and get free, but he locked his jaws tight, not letting go. 

One of the twin-alphas came up from behind, slashing across his hind legs. Pain cut through them. He yelped and rolled, scrambling in the loose leaves. But his legs didn't want to work; his left one gave out entirely. He whimpered, pulling it up to balance on three as he fought to keep his enemies in view. 

The angry-alpha grinned. There was blood on his teeth and claws, heavy and dripping, one arm showing bone where he'd bitten it. 

It was too much, too frightening. Not his den, not his place. Too much risk. 

Snarling, he dived forward. His claws raked across exposed calf, making the enemy yelp. Twin-alpha's parted and he dashed through he space, making for the safety of the woods. 

_Runrun **run**._

The enemy-alphas roared challenges, twin-cubs high and cruel, but he ignored them, crashing through the woods until the sounds went away and he was safe again, far far from the other den. His leg hadn't healed yet, still bad-hurt and weak.

He spent the rest of the day uneasily, huddled in the hollow under a dying tree, where the dirt had washed away from the roots. 

It took until nightfall for his leg to hold weight again. When it did, he crept out, going back to the noisy-smelly-crowded place with the buildings and cars, where his pack was denned up. It was a slow run, dodging the moving lights and noisy places, staying low in case the sad-alpha was still after him until he was safe. He climbed walls and slipped into the place that smelled of him, but of bad memories and blood, with hurt-pain things that cut into his feet if he wasn't careful. That wasn't what he wanted, wasn't _safe_ , but what he did was close. 

Memory helped him figure out the metal thing on the door, to make it swing open. Then he crept out, into the dark, tiny room that smelled good and safe, like warm memories and soft things and dust. The scents were old, fading, but they were comforting. Nice. Good.

There were other things there too, thoughts that made him whimper, sharp smells that hurt his nose, and some things like smelled like sick and hurt. But the good things were more, stronger better. They had memories of before _before_ , of curling up in warm arms that rocked him when he had hurts and made sweet noises when he was scared. 

Sighing, he found a pile of _softsmellgoodnicewarm_ things to lie on, drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The house was quiet. 

It was one thing that Randy hadn't gotten used to yet. Usually, even when Stiles was out, the place felt lived in. There should have been empty potato chip bags that had been poorly hidden, dishes in the sink and homework left in a pile on the kitchen table. They'd been tiny annoyances at the time, but he'd have given anything to sit down on the sofa and be surprised by the crunch of trash under a cushion. 

He took off his gun first thing after finishing a round of the town, going to the safe in his office to switch it out for the illegal Beretta that Chris had loaned him, with its homemade bullets and filed-off serials. Before the attack, he never would have worn a gun in the house. Ever since, he felt antsy without one. It was the kind of attitude that got people killed, but most people hadn't had alpha werewolves invade their home. He figured the risk was too high not to take precautions. 

Someone had left a note stuck on the kitchen door with an old clay reindeer magnet. In a soft, curving hand, the note said that Erica and Boyd would be staying the night again, but that they were going to contact their parents first. Derek's signature swooped under the message, the loop on the D curling over to become the crossbar of the H. 

Randy stared at it for a while, willing it to bloom with news of Stiles, for a single word of reassurance to appear. But there wasn't anything, just like there hadn't been a call on his cell phone. His son was out there, naked and out of his mind with fear, and there wasn't anything Randy could do to help. 

Shaking his head, he reached into the fridge to pull out a beer, twisting off the top and taking a long pull before his good sense had a chance to catch up with him. Then he went to sit on the ugly, floral print couch that Ariana had picked out when they'd moved in. The wolves had thoughtfully folded it back up for him. 

It didn't crinkle.

Television ended up being less of a distraction than he'd hoped. It wasn't that there was nothing on: there were plenty of games he'd had set to record while they were hunting for Stiles, and that one medical drama he liked was running a marathon. But it was impossible to focus for long. Everything reminded him of his son, made him wonder where he was, if he was safe, if he were even aware enough of himself to _be_ safe. Derek hadn't explained the whole _feral_ thing very well, but Randy didn't need an explanation to know that it was bad. 

The kids and Chris had been helpful explaining what _alpha_ meant, at least, and how it might have happened to Stiles. The car ride back had been long, and he'd had a lot of questions that hadn't seemed important earlier in the week but that had suddenly turned vital. God knew there was a lot to take in. Alpha, beta, omega, kanimas and hunters. _God, hunters._ Chris Argent's story sounded even worse when he heard it from the mouths of three terrified kids.

Scenes from a show he hadn't realized had come on while he'd been thinking flashed in front of Randy's eyes, canned laff-track harsh and fake as the main character took a pratfall. 

Chris had been open enough about that, admitting that his family amounted to professional murderers. The Code thing sounded shaky as hell to Randy, too easy for a determined mind to think their way around, but he had to admit that there were no provisions for how to safely incarcerate a dangerous werewolf. It all made sense, until he thought of Scott staring down the barrel of a gun, or of his own son being tracked down for the crime of existing. That was where it fell apart. 

And now Stiles was out there, and Chris probably thought of him as the enemy. Worse than the enemy, because at least the enemy was in control of their own actions.

_Shit, Chris._

Randy scrambled off the couch, knocking over his empty bottle as he reached for his cell phone. Chris' number was right in at the top, in alphabetical order. He punched it in with shaky hands, almost missing the call button. It rang three times before clicking over. 

_You've reached the voice mailbox of **CHRISTOPHER ARGENT**. Please leave a message at the tone. _

"Chris, this is Randy. Give me a call as soon as you get this. It's about last night." Randy paused, weighing his words. He knew better than to leave incriminating messages in a voice mail—there'd been more than one perp that had gone down under that sort of evidence—but he needed to say _something_. "I just— I wanted to say thanks for helping, but what we talked about still stands. Don't forget that." 

The recording beeped, and the pleasant feminine voice started offering the usual choices. He hung up before it could ask if he wanted to rerecord. 

His hands were still shaking. Randy stared down at them, feeling like they belonged to someone else, someone who wasn't the cool, collected Sheriff of a surprisingly bloody county. Maybe someone whose son wasn't out there alone, being hunted by people who lived their whole lives to kill things like him.

Shoving his phone in a pocket, he ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, fingers flying over the buttons of shirt. It dropped halfway up the stairs, and his shoes were abandoned on the landing. 

A change of clothes. Something darker, more suited for the woods. Then he'd go back out. Hell, it wasn't like he was going to get any sleep anyway. 

He was in such a rush to get changed and get back out to the woods that he didn't notice the door to Stiles' room right away. It had been closed since the forensics people had cleared it. Randy hadn't even picked up the glass, hadn't been able to stand in the room and look at his son's bloodstains on the carpet. But it was open now, light from the hall dancing across the scattered remnants of that night.

That wasn't the only thing that was open. His own bedroom door was too, and he knew he'd closed it. When he'd woken up to go out searching, the kids had still been in the house. He'd closed it as a reminder not to go snooping. Like Stiles' door, it had been left pushed open. A smear of blood and dirt was on the knob, and then another marred the white paint lower down.

Randy's chest went tight. Moving slowly, he pulled the Beretta out of his borrowed hip holster and inched forward. There weren't any sounds coming from the room, but watching the pack had taught him that werewolves didn't make much noise if they didn't want to. They were predators, and a predator that alerted its prey too soon went hungry.

He left the light off at first as he inched inside the bedroom, sliding sideways to keep his back to the wall. There were no obvious dangers, no silhouettes standing out. The street lamp lit up the floor and most of one wall, showing everything pretty much as normal. But it wasn't empty. Something was making noise. Now that he was in the room, he could barely hear it. There was a soft scratch, and the sound of light breathing.

Using his elbow, he reached out and flipped the switch. Light flooded the room, harsh and much too bright. Randy winced and blinked, squinting. _Tactical error,_ he realized, keeping his back close to the wall until his eyes adjusted. It was almost perfectly normal. The safe hadn't been opened, or even moved from the last time he'd been in it. None of his drawers were open—and good luck to anyone looking for valuables there, he wasn't that dumb—and even the bedclothes were still tucked. There was just one thing, one small detail that made his heart clench. 

Ariana's closet was open. 

When she'd died, he hadn't been able to bring himself to clean it out, and he hadn't needed the space, so he just left it. And it had sat there for so many years that even the thought of getting rid of so many things, so many _memories_ was just too much. It hadn't been touched, hadn't even been dusted, as if she'd waltz home from the hospital any day to complain about the mess he'd left of her things. 

Heart in his throat, Randy paced to the closet door. His hands stayed steady on the gun as he hooked his toe around the edge of the door and pulled, bracing himself for whatever was coming. 

Nothing did. There was no movement in the shadows of the closet, no attack. Just the same soft breathing, and an occasional _click_ or _scratch_ as something dragged against the walls. This time, he had to take his hand off the gun to grab the dangling cord and tug, flicking on the bare overhead bulb.

Stiles' head came up, brown eyes bright and wary as he stared at Randy from a colorful pile of clothes that had been pulled down and pushed into a nest. He'd curled up around them, practically burrowed in, naked limbs not at all covered by the miss-mesh of laundry. Blood had dried on the carpet, smeared on the walls, but Stiles didn't look like he was hurt. Covered in dirt, yes, and bare-ass naked definitely, but not hurt. The plain brown carpet looked ridiculous against his skin, making him look white as a sheet. At least, where the freckles and smudges didn't stand out like bruises. 

"Son?" Keeping his movements slow and deliberate, Randy lowered himself into a crouch. The gun stayed in hand, a guilty weight. "Are you in there?"

No response. Stiles' eyes tracked him without moving his head, but they didn't go that dangerous red that the alphas' had been when they attacked. It reminded Randy of abused kids he'd seen, ones that had been hit so many times they were always on edge, always ready to run.

"Okay," Randy said, not able to keep himself silent with Stiles watching him that way. "Okay, you just... stay put while I call someone. Can you do that for me?"

He stayed in the doorway, holding the gun in one hand while the other dug for his cell phone. It took more work than it should have, the slender little thing slipping between fingers that didn't want to close around it. By the time he pulled it out, he'd already accidentally locked it for thirty seconds for having screwed up the pass code. 

Knees and hips starting to ache, Randy switched between watching his son and watching the timer go down on the phone. Stiles hadn't made a move. He wasn't even wolfed-out—no teeth, and the claws had already melted away. It could have been a really bad first time with alcohol or drugs if Randy didn't know better. Since the chances of being able to run from him weren't better if his legs were numb, Randy finished sitting. The thump his ass made as it hit the floor made Stiles twitch, and his claws drag a little hole in what had once been a nice silk blouse. He didn't attack, though, so Randy counted it as a win.

Wincing, he stretched out his knees, listening to the joints pop. Stiles kept watching him with that same alert expression. The timer on his phone vanished, and he dragged his thumb over to unlock it. Flicking through his contacts, he found the number he needed, filed under T: _Trouble_. It wasn't a number he was technically supposed to have, but _que sera sera_.

It rang once before clicking through. The voice on the other end opened with a growl and went on with, "Who are you and how did you get this number?"

Randy sent up a prayer of thanks for people who answer their phone. "Derek, it's Randy." He stretched out his legs, leaning back against the door frame for support. "You need to get your pack together and get over here."

"What?" Derek's voice lowered, and there was a rush of sound as if he'd stepped near a busy high way. "Has something happened? Is it the alphas?" 

Stiles lowered his head, sniffing the foot that was nearest him. Softly, he let out a whole-body sigh and crawled over, nuzzling his cheek against the side of Randy's shoe. Then his eyes closed again.

Something sharp tugged at Randy's heart. He toed off his shoe and slipped further down until he was touching Stiles from temple to bare shoulder, with his sock-clad toes curling toward his neck. "No, not the alphas," he said around the lump in his throat. "It's Stiles. I've found him."


	6. Skin Trade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! Life happened, as it occasionally does. My beta's been kind enough to finish and hand over the entire rest of the fic, so while I'll still be posting on a delay, it's a much shorter one. 
> 
> Please remember that this fic was finished in rough before the start of S3. Everything about the Alpha Pack is wrong, with the exception of some names.

Erica stood back by Boyd, hovering near the bed as Derek had a stare down with Stiles. He was crouched from about three feet away from the door, wearing just a pair of battered jeans and an A-line that hugged every muscle he had and a few that no one should have. Next to him, Stiles looked like a scrawny sack of bones where he glared out from his hiding place, red eyes glowing and lips pulled back in a half-snarl. 

It was maybe the most bizarre thing she'd seen since Jackson had stopped being a lizard. No one said anything, or even made any noises, when she'd honestly been expecting a growl and maybe some blood. They just looked at each other, occasionally tilting their heads or taking a step closer or away. 

Everyone else piled up by the door in the hall, watching from outside the room. The Sheriff and Scott had both objected, loudly, but Derek had pointed out that they wouldn't be any help if something happened, anyway. 

The staring lasted about ten minutes, until Stiles let out a huge yawn. He turned around to burrow into his laundry pile, hiding most of his nudity. Derek stood up, brushing off his knees with a huff. 

"What, no fight?" Erica asked brightly. 

Derek's head swiveled to stare at her. He had the flat, tight expression Erica had started to identify as the one he got when people were a little too honest in their assessment of his alpha capabilities. It was somewhere between insulted and annoyed, with a touch of frustration tossed in for good measure. "No fight," he growled. "He doesn't think I'm enough of a threat." 

Someone in the doorway stifled a snicker. It sounded like Scott. 

The Sheriff shoved his way in, looking between Derek and the open closet like he wasn't really sure whether or not to trust Derek's reassurances. His white undershirt had a stain on it that Erica was almost positive was either old dirt or coffee. It smelled like coffee. "What do we do now?" 

"Keep him calm. Keep him here." Derek jerked his chin toward Erica. "Have them stay with him. They're his pack; he'll feel better if they're where he can protect them." 

"Protect us?" Boyd snorted. It was the first thing he'd said since the staring had started. "You mean eat us for dinner?" 

Erica found herself nodding in agreement before Boyd had even finished talking. "I'm not becoming kibble just because I accidentally signed up for a new alpha." 

Amazingly, Derek's face just got sterner and more chiseled-looking. "He won't hurt you," he said, the words almost having to be dragged out of him. "An alpha's first instinct in times of crisis is to defend the pack. If he moves, just get out of his way. You'll be fine." 

"First instinct, huh?" Erica slid her grip down Boyd's arm to lace their fingers together. "Could have used that one with our last alpha." Using Boyd's hand, she tugged him toward the closet. She could feel Derek glaring at her back, and quietly chalked up a point for herself. 

The rumpled pile of clothes and naked boy in the back of the closet moved as soon as they stepped into the doorway. Red eyes watched them from underneath the folds of a yellow sundress. It looked like Stiles wasn't as tired as he'd seemed when he'd given Derek the cold shoulder. There wasn't any humanity in his eyes, but she thought she saw a hint of recognition.

It was weird— _beyond_ weird—thinking of Stiles reduced to an animal. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel him curled up against her side sometimes, hear his voice chattering in the darkness. He'd been the one to get them out. Maybe she didn't like this whole alpha thing, but he was pack. And he needed them.

Erica swallowed, gripping Boyd's hand tight as they shuffled in.

Inside the closet, there were two distinct sets of scents. The closet itself smelled like she imagined the dressing room of some ancient noblewoman would smell like a century later. Dust was heavy in the air, but under that was the faint, powdery scent of expensive perfume and talc, a hint of cedar, expensive clothes and cheap ones. Somewhere a mouse had left droppings that had never been cleaned up, and there was a bag that was layered with the scent of antiseptic and slow death. All of the scents were faded, old, but without the smudging or overlays that usually happened after a while. It was like a time capsule, almost. 

And then there was Stiles, overpowering everything just by existing. He was wood and dirt, blood and sweat and other fluids that would have made her nose wrinkle before the bite. They were just scents now, though, thick musky things that conveyed way more information than she wanted. Under that, though, was something wild. It lifted the hair on the back of her neck and made her want to look small. At the same time, it was achingly familiar, warm and comforting. 

Werewolf instincts, Erica already knew, didn't make any sense. The way Stiles smelled like the most frightening and best things ever at the same time was just more proof. 

Stiles didn't do anything as they shoved some shoes aside and settled down. It was pretty big, for a closet, nearly a walk-in, but it hadn't really been designed for three people to sit in. Erica ended up cradled between Boyd's thighs, leaning back against his chest with their legs stretched out to touch the other wall. His arms went around her waist and it was nice. Would have been nicer if they hadn't been cuddling in a closet next to a feral alpha werewolf, but it had been too bad a month to be picky. 

Out in the bedroom, she could hear the Sheriff moving around, doing something that involved opening doors and moving things. Every now and then someone walked where they were visible through the doorway, but most of the action was taking place out of sight. "I'll see if I can block the window to help keep him in."

"It won't stop him," Peter said, with that smug little lilt that made Erica's teeth try to sharpen. She barely knew Peter, but she already didn't like him. No one who tried that hard to be charming was good news. "You'll have to put up mountain ash if you want to keep him in." 

The pile of clothing moved. Very, very low, Stiles growled. Erica smiled and tilted her head back against Boyd's shoulder. "Looks like our new alpha has good taste," she murmured, just loudly enough that she knew the werewolves in the house could hear. "He doesn't like the zombie either." 

There came a pause from the bedroom. "I prefer formerly living impaired," Peter said, a shade too stiffly. Downstairs, Isaac laughed, and the Sheriff asked why. 

Boyd chuckled, nuzzling a kiss to her jaw. "Vampire in werewolf clothes," he whispered. "We should throw glitter on him and ship him to Rome." 

"Oh God." Erica slapped a hand over her mouth to keep her giggles from getting too loud. Stiles' head was slowly but steadily rising out of his hiding place, attracted by the sounds. She did _not_ want to find out if he didn't like them. 

The sound of furniture shifting around increased, as did the volume of Stiles' growl. He slipped out of his hiding place, crawling forward until one hand rested on Boyd's knee. Something going on in the other room bothered him, enough that his eyes had taken on the red glow of an angry alpha.

Erica swallowed and sank back against Boyd. Against her back, his heartbeat had gotten faster. She felt like breathing wrong might set things off. "Um, Derek?" she called, wincing when her raised voice made Stiles get louder in response. He _really_ didn't like what they were doing out there. "He's feeling antsy in here. What do we do?"

"Talk to him," came the, unsurprisingly unhelpful, answer. "Don't let him leave the closet."

"Do you have any idea how hard it's going to be to keep _Stiles Stilinski_ in the closet?" Her voice wobbled a little on the joke. Stiles leaned over them, his shoulder brushing against her chest. His muscles were so tense he was nearly trembling. " _Derek_."

"Just _try_." 

"This is crazy." Taking a shaky, uncertain breath, Erica reached out to touch Stiles' bare hip. There were some scars there, softly dimpled spots that were just a little darker than the rest of his skin. If she curled her fingers just right, they almost matched up. "Hey," she tried. Soothing wasn't a tone of voice that came naturally to her, but she tried to keep her voice soft. His head tilted, just a little, like he was listening. "Hey, it's okay. Calm down."

The little jumps and ticks in Stiles' muscles eased. He didn't actually relax, but he didn't look ready to pounce on the nearest living thing and shred it to tiny globs of meat. His head turned more, but she noticed that he still kept watching the door.

"It's okay," she repeated, voice a little stronger. Stretching a little more, she pressed her whole palm to his side, stroking lightly, even over stretches that were tacky with sweat and dirt. He twitched away at first, but then settled. "Come on, we've been through worse, remember? At least here the light's on the inside. And there's food—good stuff, not just oatmeal. I bet a burger would make you feel better." 

Stiles was definitely listening. The longer she spoke, the quieter his growl got. He sat back on his heels, still keeping on hand on Boyd's knee. She couldn't resist a glance down, and then had to hold back an appreciative whistle. Maybe she'd given up on the crush a little fast. 

"Boyd, say something," Erica said, keeping to the same soft, even tone she'd directed at Stiles. "He's your alpha, too." 

"What am I supposed to say?" Boyd's voice started low and then got even quieter when Stiles swiveled his head around to listen. "Does he even understand us?"

"Who knows?" Erica moved her hand up to pet Stiles' hair. Dried blood and grit had matted it in some places, getting between her fingers, under her nails. It was a little shaggy without the constant attention of a pair of clippers, but hadn't grown long yet. She dragged her fingers through it, and tried not to grin when Stiles dipped his head into the touch. _Alpha likes to be petted, huh?_ "Just say something. Talk about school."

Boyd shifted against her. Then, slowly, he started to speak. It wasn't English, but it flowed smoothly, with only a couple of hiccups where he had to repeat himself. Erica sighed, twisting so she could rest her cheek against his chest. Words rumbled in her ear, matching pace with Boyd's heartbeat. She didn't understand a bit of it, but it was still nice.

Their alpha seemed to agree. He sighed and settled against them, chest and shoulders draped over their thighs. Slowly, his eyes drifted mostly closed, though Erica could still see a sliver of red and he never relaxed all the way. She kept petting his hair, nails scratching along his scalp now and then.

Her eyelids felt heavy; it had been a while since she'd been able to sleep. Even on the Sheriff's couch the night before, she hadn't been able to do more than doze. It was... nice. Boyd had a good voice, and she liked hearing his heartbeat as he spoke, the heat of them against her. It was all the closeness that they'd had in the cage without any of the bad parts. The whole, horrible experience, the reason why they were crunched into a closet together was almost ignorable for the moment. 

She wondered if she should have felt guilty about that.

After a few minutes, Boyd's voice came to a gentle stop. The weight on their legs didn't move. Erica was pretty sure Stiles was still paying attention, but whatever had been bothering him didn't seem to matter as much. In the bedroom, the sounds of things being shifted around had mostly stopped. 

"What was that?" she asked quietly, rubbing her cheek against Boyd's chest. "It was pretty."

"We had to give an oral presentation for our Spanish final," he explained. His hand spread out over her waist, finding the spot where the Sheriff's borrowed shirt had rucked up and tucking his fingers under it. "It's a poem I memorized for it."

"You would have gotten an A," she murmured contentedly, letting her eyes slip closed.

* * *

Stiles was growling at Peter. He'd turned his back on Derek, but Peter just stepping into the room was apparently enough to make him want blood.  
Derek was pretty sure he'd just been insulted. 

Worse, Peter was smug about it, giving Derek happy little grins every time their eyes met. Anything that made Peter happy was automatically a negative, in Derek's book. He didn't want Peter happy. He wanted him just surviving enough to be useful, but not enough to get any ideas. _Happy_ was dangerous. And Derek would be dangerous too, if Peter ever found the gall to say something about Stiles' opinions in private.

Randy helped them move things to block the window as an obvious exit without seeming to notice the tension in the room. He mostly carried little things, helped them figure out angles; with werewolves at hand he barely needed to do any actual lifting. Under his directions, they had the entire bedroom rearranged and had moved in a (loaded) set of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. If Stiles wanted out and realized there was a window, the bookshelves wouldn't stop him. Probably the wall wouldn't stop him. But Derek was counting on him not thinking well enough to realize how fragile most houses were. 

"That should do it," Peter said, brushing his hands off after he and Derek had set down the dresser where it wouldn't be completely boxed in. He leaned forward, peering at a series of framed photographs, for all appearances actually interested in them. "Pop Warner? I'm shocked he didn't break something."

Blinking, Derek peered at the photo in question. It was probably Stiles—it was impossible to be sure _who_ the scrawny kid under a helmet and shoulder pads was, but going by the Sheriff and the smiling woman next to him in the photo, Derek was willing to bet it was. There was no doubt that the woman was Stiles' mother—those eyes were unmistakable. 

Over by the door, Randy examined the new arrangement with an uncertain frown. His eyes slid between the freshly blocked window and the open door to the closet. "He did—his left arm," he answered, almost absently. "By the time it healed, he'd moved on to lacrosse and we didn't bother enrolling him again."

"Nice," Peter nodded. "Lacrosse is more fun, anyway. Less... Squishy." 

Randy shot Peter a confused glance. Then he shook his head, the way so many people did, dismissing Peter out of hand. He looked over at Derek. "Can I sleep in here?" he asked, shoulders hunching. "He won't attack me?" 

It was clear that Randy didn't like the question, that an occasion where his son might try and kill him in his sleep wasn't one he'd ever wanted to consider. 

Derek wondered what it was like to think that way. When he was growing up, the chance that someone might lose control was always a consideration. There were things they all did to try and minimize the bloodshed, but never a question of it _going away_. It just was. 

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms across low on his chest. "You should be safe," Derek finally said. "Boyd and Erica will stay with him, and he seems to have accepted you as pack. You should be more concerned with him biting you than killing you."

A wry smile twisted Randy's mouth. "A county Sheriff who can sniff out criminals, chase them down _and_ eat all the fast food he wants? I think I'd survive."

"You won't have to." Being his usual annoying self, Peter had moved from the pictures to the books, and was flipping through what looked like a law dictionary from the eighties. "Stiles isn't into biting. Not his thing." 

" _Peter_ ," Derek snapped, before the Sheriff could react. "Why don't you go downstairs and take Isaac and Scott to the McCall's for the night? And stay there, in case the alphas attack."

"Melissa doesn't like me anymore." It was a pout, an honest to God _pout_. 

"She has good taste." Snapping his arm out, Derek pointed at the door. "Go."

Rolling his eyes, Peter slid the book back into its place and sauntered out the door, hands in his pockets. Derek was going to get an earful from both McCalls for foisting Peter off on them. The reason was bullshit, but he needed Peter out of the house, or else he was going to end up killing him again. It hadn't worked the first time, though, and Derek wasn't a big fan of the _try, try again_ philosophy. 

Predictably, Scott's noises of protest carried up the stairs, loud enough that even Randy winced. One of the sleeping heartbeats in the closet jumped—Stiles', probably—but it steadied again after a minute. A few minutes later there was a shuffle, and the sound of the door slamming shut, leaving the house less three people. 

"Now that that obvious decoy is done..." Randy tilted his head at the door. "They'll keep. Let's you and I have a beer and you can tell me why you felt like you needed to do that. Unless you need to stay on guard." 

"Alcohol doesn't affect werewolves," Derek felt compelled to say, even as he followed Randy out into the hall. He closed the door behind him, thumb sliding over a smear of blood on the knob. It wasn't much, and he couldn't even smell that specific spot under the scent of Stiles all over the upper hall. There was too much blood everywhere for any one piece to stand out.

The few times he'd been in the Stilinski home before, it had smelled like a _home_. Now it smelled like a murder scene. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was his fault. 

"I knew there had to be a downside," Randy murmured, either ignoring or missing Derek's pause at the door. "I'll take that as a yes to the offer of a beer."

They ended up sitting at the kitchen table, two glass bottles dripping condensation onto the wood as they completely failed to drink them. There was a dark, dusty spot on the wall where the bookshelf had sat before they'd moved it. Some of the more delicate things that had been on it had been removed first, and were scattered on nearby tables, looking out of place and forlorn. 

Somewhere in the house, an old fashioned clock was ticking. Derek caught his fingers tapping in time to it. He curled them into a fist. 

Randy took that as an invitation. "So. Peter." Reaching out, he grabbed his beer and took a long pull before setting it down right where it had been. He even went so far as to line up the rings of condensation. "Want to talk, or should I take you in?"

Derek snorted. He traced the rough triskele on the table with his fingertip and some of the condensation. "You don't think arresting me for murder once is enough?"

"I'm not that easily distracted." Crossing his arms, Randy leaned over the table. It was the same way he'd leaned over the table while trying to take Derek's statement about Laura. He'd ended up taking the fifth, instead. The bottles between them didn't help make it more intimidating. It reminded Derek of his own father making a point over dinner, back when that had been a thing. "You're not a murderer."

"No, I'm a killer." Finally, Derek took a drink of his own bottle. They hadn't told Randy everything; there just hadn't been enough time, and Derek hadn't wanted to lay down his cards all at once. But things were getting tangled enough that trying to juggle secrets was just one act too many. "Do you want the long or the short version?"

Randy's shoulders softened, just a little. Derek might not have noticed if he hadn't been fresh from dealing with a non-verbal alpha. "Short version, and I'll ask questions if I need to." 

Better than some options he could have gone for. "You know that Peter was the alpha who bit Scott," Derek started, since it seemed like the place to. Picking up his bottle again, he swirled the liquid inside, watching it foam slightly as it sloshed. "And then I killed him. When he managed to get himself resurrected, he came back weaker. He could reclaim the life, but not the power—that had already passed on to me."

Which was just another thing on the pile of shit Derek needed to deal with. Whatever Peter had done to the girl—Lydia—hadn't been anything he'd heard of before. He needed to corner Peter and pry answers out of him. If it was going to be something else to bite them in the ass, it would be nice to know before the bodies started piling up. 

"That doesn't tell me why you practically shoved him out the door," Randy said, after a minute of quiet thought. "Is he a threat?"

"I don't know." The admission tasted bitter, but at least it was honest. "He's not an alpha anymore. He might want to become one again." 

"By killing my son."

"He could try killing me," Derek said, raising his eyebrows. He knocked back the last of his beer, setting the empty down with a _thunk_ that made the faint rhythm of Stiles' heartbeat overhead jump. "I don't think Peter's that desperate. A feral wolf, even a new one, is dangerous, and a feral alpha will be worse. They're too unpredictable. Most packs would think twice before taking one head-on. A low powered beta wouldn't stand a chance, and Stiles doesn't trust Peter enough to let him close. But I didn't want to chance it."

The Sheriff stared at his bottle, light eyes crinkled at the corners. Derek thought back to the picture, to how few lines there'd been on his face in it. Derek knew what it was like, having only one person left in the world. It was almost easier, once Laura was gone. The worst had happened. 

He pushed up from the table before his thoughts could get any more morbid. "Thank you for the drink," he said, mouth working on autopilot. "I'll be back in the morning to take over from Erica and Boyd."

"Wait." Randy's hand on his wrist stopped him before he could move to toss his bottle in the recycle bin. "Thank you. I know this isn't the top of your priority list, but I appreciate it." 

Derek stared down at the hand on his wrist. It was light, not actually restraining, but he couldn't make himself pull away. "Stiles spent two hours treading water to keep me from drowning." His eyes slid up to meet Randy's. "I owe him."

He pulled his hand free, tossed the bottle into the green bin, and left before Randy could figure out what to say to that.

* * *

Warm. Comfortable. Safe. 

But wrong. Something was _wrong_. 

Cracking his eyes, he peered around the tiny den. His betas had dozed off against each other, heartbeats soft and steady. They smelled happy. Outside, he could hear his father-not-wolf asleep too; there was a scent of something sharp on him, and he wasn't relaxed like the others. Sometimes his heartbeat jumped and his breathing sped, but it wasn't something frightening, nothing to run from or fight. Just bad dreams. He knew what bad dreams were. There were lots of them. 

There was no sign of his other beta, the one with the dark hair from the woods. That worried him, niggled at something tight and painful in his chest. Brave-beta hadn't come into the den with the other two. His scent had been in the house, and he'd _felt_ him, but he hadn't come. _Before_ , the brave one had always been there. It felt wrong that he wasn't, like the way his knee still felt wrong, something broken and not healed. 

Whining low in his throat, he buried his face against the big beta's side. It smelled good—of fur and protection and pack. The big beta didn't wake up, but a hand ran over the top of his head and down the back of his neck soothingly. It helped, a little, but it wasn't his third beta. Pack was supposed to stay together; he couldn't protect them if they weren't all together. The bad alphas were still out there, and so was the empty-alpha, the old alpha who wasn't anymore. 

He stayed there as long as he could stand, not wanting to leave his pack, but the twitchy _badwrongdangermissing_ feeling didn't go away. Lifting his head, he sniffed his betas, making sure they were really okay before pulling himself away from where they'd tangled themselves around him. Stepping over them, he nudged the door open with his shoulder, looking around the room.

Things had been moved. Heavy stuff blocked the window, and the bed was against a different wall, twisted so it was close to the small den. His not-wolf was asleep on top of it, heart smooth and easy for the moment. Padding over, he leaned up to sniff his father's shoulder, taking in warm, familiar scents and memories. Good things, like the small den. 

For a minute, he just wanted to crawl up and curl around his father-not-wolf. He remembered being smaller, huddled under blankets together, safe and sound and happy. They were good memories, and eased the itch under his skin a little. But the memories made it hard to remember that they were in danger, that he had to protect them. Father-not-wolf was brave and strong and fierce, but the alphas were mean and scary and hungry. 

Sighing, he left the bed alone and started looking for a way out. Without the window, there was the door, but the knob didn't want to turn like the other had. It slipped in his palm, making him growl when it didn't work. There were memories. Locks and keys, hinges and things. One time he would have been able to. _Before_ he would have been able to. 

Sitting back in his haunches, he stared at it. One memory tickled him, of him and the brave beta outside a _noisyloudsmelly_ place. Reaching up, he tried again, twisting and twisting and twisting until—

_Crack!_

The knob popped apart, pieces falling to the floor. Instantly, the other three heartbeats in the room leaped. His betas scrambled out of the den, and the not-wolf nearly fell off the bed trying to get up. He ignored them and focused on trying to get the door open, digging his claws into the edge and pulling. It resisted at first, but then he bumped it just the right way and it started to slide open.

A hand slammed it back closed. "Stiles, _no_ —" 

He growled, snapping at the hand. Father-not-wolf yanked it back. He didn't, however, actually pull away. 

"Don't try and stop him, Mr. Stilinski." The big beta stepped up against the door, setting his back to it. Tugging on the door made him move a little, but didn't actually open the door. 

Baring his teeth, he growled. He _was_ going to find his other beta. Why were they stopping him? It didn't make any sense. The brave one was _pack_. He needed to be in the den.

"Did he _break the doorknob_?" His sharp beta, the only female, knelt down beside him, picking up pieces of metal. "I thought he wouldn't be smart enough to do that. Derek didn't say he would, anyway." 

"And Derek is a well spring of freely offered information?" 

The sharp beta bobbed her head confusingly. Her shoulder pressed against his reassuringly. "Point. We should try and get him back into the closet. Once he's in there, Mr. Stilinski can figure out what to do about the door."

She tried to tug at his arm. He snapped at her and tried to open the door again. He needed _out_. His beta was _out there_. But then the big beta started helping, hands gentle as they pulled. He whined, but let himself be taken away a few steps, twisting to try and get back to the door.

After a few steps, he dropped down and yanked. His betas staggered, caught by surprise. They slammed into each other with a loud _crack_ of bone breaking and a hint of blood. Tugging free, he dove for the door, claws sinking into the wood to _pull_. It came open with a groan, swinging wide.

"Stiles!" The big one yelled, but he was already in motion, running to the first room. _That_ was still working. In a flash, he'd hopped through the flapping blue thing on the window and onto a tree limb. It swayed under his weight. Lights were flipping on inside the building, and there were shouts and loud noises, thumps of feet on wood.

Using his claws to hold on, he slid down the tree, making his way from branch to branch until he ended with a leap to the ground. His bad knee creaked and hurt as he landed. It made him yelp, leg trying to give way under him. He shook it off, taking off in a four-legged lope that let him use it as little as possible until it stopped hurting so much.

There were lights all over, making him shy away from the wide open street. Instead he stuck to the shadowy parts of buildings and fences, staying low and out of sight as he sniffed for his beta's scent. There was a spot near the door that was freshest. Once he had it, he started moving. 

The brave beta couldn't be far. He had never been before. 

A dog barked at him as he followed the scent, and a cat dashed across the street. A breeze blew in from the west, whispering through tree limbs and carrying the scent of the woods, with its rabbits and deer and other tasty things. His stomach pinched tight; he hadn't eaten since a squirrel earlier. It had been all fur and bones, no meat, and then he'd fought and run and hid. But he needed to find his beta. Something was wrong. He could feel it. No time.

Brave beta's scent led him to a den-home tucked away behind a few trees. It was one of the places he'd marked the night before; it still smelled like him, nice and thick. There were other smells there, too. One was the quiet beta that belonged to the weak alpha, and a not-wolf—female, smelling like mother and sharp things and hurts made better. Both of those were scents worked into the walls, deep and strong for having been there before, though the quiet beta was much weaker than the other two. And then under those, faintest of all was...

The empty-alpha was there. 

Growling, he edged closer, nostrils flaring. Four heartbeats sounded in the building, two gentle with sleep, and two faster. His beta was nearby. He needed to find him and bring him back to the den, to be with the pack. 

There was an open window on the first floor. It led to the room that smelled like food. Some of the human-noises carried out, sharp but quiet. Angry. He didn't like that. They made him want to skitter back to the shadows and find a hiding place. Instead he hunched down, staying close. 

"You _bit my son_!" Things clanged and banged. "You made him try to kill his friends, and you _murdered people_. Why would I want a second date with _you_?" 

"I think you're being a little hasty to judge."

His hackles went up at _that_ voice. He knew that voice. It was _bad_. It sounded bad, gave him shivers. 

"And I think you ought to be grateful I didn't stick wolfsbane in your soup. If Scott hadn't said we needed you alive..."

Leaving the window, he found a place near the back where the tree was close and started climbing. His claws dug into the bark and he scraped his palms in a few places. They healed right away, leaving just sap-sticky skin behind. 

On the second floor there was a window, right where he'd remembered it from Before. His brave-beta and the curly-haired beta were asleep on the bed. He whined, edging across a tree limb and stretching out to balance on the window, claws scraping the sill. His hurt knee was aching again, but when he tried to straighten it, his balance wobbled. 

On the bed, his beta groaned and rubbed his eyes. Then he blinked, sitting up sharply. "Stiles!"

Startled, he jerked backward, scrabbling for balance that didn't come. Little tree branches cracked around him as he fell, eventually crashing down to land on the grass with a hard _thump_. Pain in his ribs and arms flared, and sparks flashed behind his eyes. It only lasted a second before he started healing again, but it left him dizzy.

Two sets of bright gold eyes peered down at him. 

"Stiles?" The brave beta's noises were heavy with worry. "Are you hurt? Speak to me, dude."

The curly-beta was there too, expression soft with sleep as he knelt in the dirt. "I don't think he can. He's still naked."

"How'd he get out? I thought Mr. Stilinski and the others were watching him." 

_That_ voice appeared, low and cruel, making his skin prickle uneasily. "Good thing he came here. Seems like there might be some brains in that feral little skull." 

Gentle hands tried to pull at him, but he rolled over and scrambled a few feet away, whipping his head around to find the empty-alpha-not-alpha. He was there in the doorway, watching with a curious expression. Pulling back his teeth, he growled, trying to get between the two betas and the threat. _His_ beta; the bad alpha had already bitten him once. It wasn't going to happen again. 

When he saw him looking, empty-alpha bared his teeth. He growled louder, shoulders rolling forward as he readied himself to pounce. The old alpha was weak; he'd go down easy, run off easy. 

"Peter, knock it off. You're upsetting him." Warm arms wrapped around his shoulders; he almost snapped, but pulled pack at the last second. It was just brave-beta. That was okay. "Come on, Stiles. Inside. The neighbors are already getting an eyeful." 

The hands tugged, but he dug in, resisting. Empty-alpha was still a threat, but there was something else. A hint on the wind. The breeze was still coming from the woods, but every now and then it drifted, and carried something different. Blood, maybe, and a hint of musky fur. His claws came out, digging into the dirt as he twisted, trying to find what he could only just barely smell. 

A flash of red on top of the building caught his eye. Snarling, he stepped backward, shifting his attention fully. 

The brave beta made a confused noise. "Stiles?" 

"The feral little monster pays more attention than you do." One of the alphas swung down from the peak of the roof to crouch on the porch overhang. It was the angry one from the old den. He still smelled like blood and the _sharpbadhurty_ stuff from before. "Come on, cookie, you remember me, don't you? Your old pal, Locke."

"Get out of here!" The brave beta popped his claws out and tried to step between him and the angry alpha. He leaped, keeping in front, snapping at the beta's hand in rebuke. Then he pressed his back against the beta's knees, forcing him to back up or fall. 

"Listen to your alpha, pup. He's smarter than you." Claws scraped across the roof with a sound that hurt his ears. "You haven't got a chance against me, and he knows it."

"Why are you here?" The empty-alpha's eyes turned blue. 

White, white teeth flashed in the dark, glittering in the street lamp. "For a little bit of fun." In a flash of movement the alpha jumped. They scattered, the two betas going in two different directions and the old-bad alpha diving straight for the new one. 

He froze, head turning to pick which to follow. The hesitation cost him when the angry alpha landed beside him, claws out. A hard blow ripped open his shoulder, and another in his stomach before he could right himself from the first. He rolled, scrabbling to get away so his chest could heal just as the curly-beta pounced. Almost immediately, the beta was thrown into a tree. His head went _crack_ against the wood and he slumped, heart slowing into unconsciousness. 

The empty-alpha didn't do much better. He went low, getting his claws into the angry alpha's gut. It left his back open. Bright copper scent filled the air the alpha sank in his claws and ripped, the fresh scent of blood filling the air. He cried out and growled, knees giving way, refusing to let go. 

While they fought, brave-beta darted out from the shadows, clawing at the enemy alpha's legs. It sent them all into a snarling heap. Taking his chance, he leaped and landed on the angry one's back. His teeth sank into sensitive neck and bone, making the alpha howl and whip around. A sharp snap sent him flying, slamming into a wall with a crunching sound. He rolled to his feet, ready to pounce again, when a blast from a gun tore through the air. 

The angry alpha jerked and yelped, whipping about. 

In the shadows beside the building, father-not-wolf from his pack had a gun held up and ready. His heartbeat was like a hummingbird's wings, so fast and nervous that the individual thumps merged into one long sound. 

Snarling, the angry alpha leaped to the roof. In a blur of shadows and the sound of feet, he ran. The empty-alpha shouted and chased after him, dripping blood in a heavy line. With one quick look to make sure his betas were safe, he chased. The others called after him, but he was already gone.

* * *

Scott stared at the spot in the distance that Stiles had vanished to. He'd thought he could keep up, but Peter and the alpha were apparently faster than he'd thought. By the time he'd made it three houses, they were already out of sight. Police sirens sounded in the distance, already on their way because of the gun. 

Shaking his head, he turned and hurried back home. 

"I lost him," he reported, looking around as soon as he arrived back in the yard. 

Isaac was already half-conscious, sitting up against the tree that had knocked him out. "Next time, let's just get a kennel instead of a closet." 

"Can it." Mr. Stilinski appeared at his shoulder, shoving the gun in his hands. He was still in his pajamas, and had mud all over his feet and knees. "Scott, take this and go to my house. Melissa and I will be there after we deal with the police." 

He stared down at it in shock. It felt weirdly heavy, though it wasn't that big, and he could lift hundreds of pounds now. Worse, it smelled like gunpowder and death. "Why don't you say it was wild dogs or something?" he asked, turning the gun around to try and find a safe place to hold it. There really wasn't one. 

"Because then I'd have to explain wolfsbane bullets." The sirens were getting closer, enough that even the humans could probably hear them. Mr. Stilinski gave him a tired smile and another shove. "Go. And if anyone asks, you're out with friends."

Nodding, he just cradled the gun to his chest and ran. Behind him, he heard his mom say, "After this is over, you're going to teach me how to handle one of those things." Then they were out of range, cutting through backyards and, once he was away from his own street, across roofs. Isaac followed, almost managing to keep up even with his head still bleeding. They ran a long circle around the neighborhood, in case alphas were watching, before finally ending up in the Stilinskis' back yard.

Boyd held open the door, a bright warm light so they didn't even need to slow down before they were inside. It led into the kitchen, which smelled like TV dinners and dishes left unwashed, with a hint of spices from the cabinet and cleaning fluids under the counter, all of it covered by a thick layer of _Stiles_. They were good scents, relaxing; Scott had spent almost as much time in Stiles' home as his own. Even though there was nothing keeping an alpha from bursting through the door, he still felt safe. 

"What happened?" Erica demanded, eyes wide and turning alarmed gold. She was perched on the counter, bare heels swinging. Blond curls tangled around her face in a sleep-rumpled mess, but she was still wide awake. "Why are you carrying—where's Mr. Stilinski? Why do you have the _gun_?" 

"We heard the shots," Boyd explained, taking a spot next to Erica and leaning against her. He hadn't lost enough control for his eyes to have changed, but Scott could see the tension in his shoulders. "Is everyone okay?" His eyes flicked over to Isaac, who'd flopped down on the couch.

"I'm fine. I just hit my head, it's almost healed." Isaac waved his hand generally in the direction of his head. "Give me a minute." 

"Well?" Erica demanded, apparently satisfied at Isaac's well-being. "Tell us!" 

"One of the alphas showed up." Belatedly, Scott realized he was still cradling the gun. For lack of a better place, he put it on the kitchen table. It looked evil, sitting there, but he couldn't think of what else to do with it. Mr. Stilinski might need it after he'd finished with the police. There was no telling where the alpha had gone. "And Stiles. There was a fight, and Mr. Stilinski shot the alpha. Twice." 

"Peter chased after him," Isaac added. His eyes stayed on the far wall, but he kept rubbing blood between his fingers, smearing it around.

Erica and Boyd glanced at each other, something passing between them that Scott couldn't read. Her knuckles had turned white from clenching the granite counter top. "At least that's one of them down," Boyd said quietly, bumping her knee with his hip.

"Not Kali." 

"He's not dead yet." Scott rubbed his hands on his thighs, lips pressed into an unhappy line. "The Sheriff got him in the leg and stomach, neither quickly lethal. He'll have time to find the antidote." 

"Where would he get the antidote?" Isaac scrubbed at some blood on his temple where he'd knocked it against the tree. For all that it looked like a bad injury, his eyes were clear when he looked up. "Here?" 

Scott turned his eyes on the gun. It was just a thing, metal parts arranged to do a job not much different than Allison's bow. Still, it bothered him, for reasons he couldn't put a finger on. "Or Mr. Argent," he answered absently, letting his mouth work with only minimal thought. "It's his gun and bullets. He just loaned them..." His own words caught up to him and his head jerked up. "Allison." 

Four sets of eyes stared at him. 

"If you're going to start that again—" Isaac started to say, but Scott cut him off. 

"No, that's not— look." He twisted the gun on the table, scraping metal against wood until he could tap the magazine. Scott didn't know anything about guns, but this one had a plant etched onto the metal, and he knew _that_ part too well: Nordic Blue Monkshood. "This is Mr. Argent's gun. There's two places they're going to find the antidote: here or at the Argents' house. If Mr. Argent is out hunting for Stiles still—"

"That means Allison is home alone," Erica's knee crossed over Boyd's, her foot knocking against his shin. She bit her lip, worrying at it. "You think she can't defend herself?"

"Against a pack of alphas?" Scott asked. "Could any of us?" 

Chair legs scraped against tile as Isaac shoved his chair back and stood. "I think we should leave her. She chose her side."

"I'm with Isaac." Gold ringed Erica's eyes for a minute before they darkened back to their usual brown. "Allison would have killed me and Boyd if she could have. I'm not sticking my neck out for her." 

Boyd bowed his head. The tips of his claws danced on the edge of the counter, clicking on the dark granite. Finally, he shook his head and looked up. "Yeah, but we're better than they are. We should at least warn them what's coming. The only reason they're in this is because Mr. Argent was helping us."

"Softy." Erica rolled her eyes, but leaned into Boyd's shoulder, looking over at Scott. "Fine. Try and call her; if she doesn't answer, try her father. But then we need to worry about our actual pack."

Scott curled his lip, but grabbed the cordless landline from a coffee table. He dialed her number from memory, pounding out the last digit hard. Derek's betas watched with varying levels of curiosity as he wandered the floor in circles, counting rings. 

She picked up on the third, with a groggy groan that still managed to make his chest tight. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" 

"Sorry, it's an emergency." He kept his head down, and tried not to think about how much he'd missed hearing her voice. "We think the alpha pack might be going there to get some wolfsbane. You have to be careful."

"Scott?" Something rustled in the background, and he heard the click of a lamp being turned on. "A pack of _alphas_? What's going on? Why would they be coming _here_? What are you talking about?" 

He went still in confusion. "You don't know? Your dad said he told you and you decided not to get involved."

"He lied," Allison snapped. "He does that a lot. Tell me what's happening." 

Boyd shook his head, but Erica had a thoughtful expression on. "Tell her," she said. "May as well."

" _Scott_."

Swallowing hard, Scott gave Allison a quick rundown of the last week and a half. She didn't say anything through it until he got to the part where Stiles had become an alpha werewolf, and that was only a confused _Stiles?_ Like she couldn't believe Stiles, of all people, could be an alpha. It made Scott's heart ache with the familiarity of it. 

"—and now they have Peter, and Mr. Stilinski's shot one of them, and your house is the only other place where they can get the right wolfsbane for the antidote," Scott finished in a rush.

"Okay." Something rustled, and bedsprings creaked. "You're at the Sheriff's house, right? Stay there, I'm on my way over. I'll bring all the wolfsbane bullets we have so they're—"

Glass shattered on the other end of the line. Allison let out a shriek and dropped the phone. 

"Allison!" Scott yelled as she screamed again.

"No need for that," someone said at a distance from the receiver, a deep, smooth male voice that raised Scott's hackles. "We'll just pick it up right now, since we're here anyway."

Scott dropped the phone and ran for the door. Boyd was hot on his heels, shouting at him to wait, but he didn't slow, even dropping down on all fours to pick up speed. Allison was in danger. 

The other two must have decided to stay with him. They caught up about a mile into the run, Boyd's shoulder bumping against his, Erica inching on his other side and Isaac close behind. At top speed, it only took them about three minutes to get to Allison's house on the far side of town. 

Light shined through her broken window. Roaring, Scott leaped up, landing on the roof and using it to spring inside. The others followed, almost landing on him when he froze on landing.

"Look at you, four little betas all in a row. It's Christmas in June."

The alpha was lounging on Allison's bed, one arm holding her to his bare chest while his other hand stayed at her throat, claws digging in. Tattoos ran up his arms and chest where they were visible, vanishing under the waistband of his leather pants. Allison's fingers clutched at the hand holding her throat, nails digging in with no result. 

Scott curled his lips in a snarl, eyes locked on the way his claws made little divots in Allison's skin. "There's four of us and one of you. Let her go." 

"Shh, do keep quiet," he said in soft, rolling tones that had a hint of a British accent. "We don't want to wake the neighbors." 

"I _said_ —"

"Don't think I shall. Hunters are so much fun, don't you think?" The arm around Allison's ribs moved down, sliding the alpha's hand across her in a petting motion. Allison shuddered, eyes tightly closed. "Maybe I'll give her the bite, send her the way of her mother? Or I could give her to Kali." Behind Scott, Erica let loose a sound like air being punched from her lungs. "Oh, yes, your two friends there know how Kali likes to play, don't they?"

Slowly, keeping his hold on Allison firm, the alpha rose to his feet. She fought, feet scrambling for purchase, but she might as well have been beating her fists on steel bars. Red eyes slid from Scott to the others and then back. "You can go, pup. You're not Hale's. We don't care about you."

Scott flexed his claws, knuckles popping. "Like you didn't care about Stiles?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Boyd, Erica and Isaac spread out, blocking the exits. That felt good, to have people who had his back. They hadn't gotten along, but at least they were together in this. "Don't think so." 

The alpha either didn't notice or didn't care that he was being trapped. He shrugged, lifting Allison higher so her toes didn't touch carpet. "I'll make sure Hale attends your funeral too, then."

With a heave, he lifted Allison up and tossed her at the window. Scott leaped, grabbing her out of the air and rolling, coming up behind the bed. Furniture crunched and someone—Scott thought it might be Isaac—roared in pain. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, gripping Allison's shoulders.

She nodded shakily, patting his forearms. Her heartbeat was fast and loud, and he could hear the air rushing through her lungs. Tiny puncture marks at her throat oozed blood where the alpha's claws had snagged her. "I'm— I'm okay. Go help them, I'll be fine."

Scott squeezed her again, then stood up, only to have to duck Erica as she was thrown over the bed. Isaac was already unconscious again, more blood matting his hair. Boyd had a wide-open gash across his chest, bone peeking out from the mess of blood and tissue. Muscle and bone shifted as Scott let the werewolf's rage take over, throwing himself at the alpha's back. His claws dug into thick muscle, making the alpha roar in pain. Remembering a trick from Peter, he pulled his fingers together and _punched_ , using his claws like a knife to slice through meat while his other hand hung on. He didn't stop until his claws scraped against ribcage.

The alpha roared again, leaning forward, and then _flipped_. Attached as he was, Scott didn't have time to get out of the way before two hundred pounds of angry werewolf landed on him. Another two hundred followed as Boyd threw himself down onto the pile. Air whooshed out of Scott's lungs, black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

Then the alpha rolled, shaking himself free of them both like they were rain. Erica darted at his legs; he moved aside just enough for her to miss her landing, grabbing the back of her neck. His knee cracked into the back of her head, and she went ragdoll limp. 

A knife sank into his shoulder. He snarled in surprise and dropped Erica, who landed in an unconscious sprawl. 

Allison held the crossbow steady with both hands, eyes locked on the alpha. "Get out of my house," she said slowly. "The bolts are poisoned." 

He flashed a smile that was one hundred percent smug bastard. Scott hated him a little more for it. "You'd risk hitting your little beta friends?" 

She didn't lower the weapon. "Try me."

Scott and Boyd edged closer to her, both of them ready to spring. The hand Scott had used was bloody to the elbow, dripping with it, and the alpha didn't even look like he'd been scratched. _Derek_ usually looked worse after less damage. 

_If the pack is an alpha's strength,_ Scott wondered, _how strong will the leader of an alpha pack be?_

After a moment, the alpha inclined his head regally and lifted his hands in the universal signal for unarmed. "Lady's choice," he said. "We'll have to do this the hard way instead, I suppose."

Then, in a bounding leap, he was out the window. Boyd and Scott both sprang to follow, jostling for place at the window, but he was already gone. 

Allison's hand touched Scott's shoulder as she leaned in to look with them. Her heart beat a steady, comforting pace that eased his own. "What did he mean, the hard way?" she asked.

Boyd shrugged, then pushed away from the window to go check on Erica. "Looks like we're going to find out."

* * *

"My God." 

Randy stared at the pile of animal bodies. In the slanting morning light it looked like a sick joke, or something out of a movie. There was too much blood, too much everything for it to be real. Three deer, ripped open from throat to gullet, dumped in a heap on Derek's porch. On the wall above it, blood had been used to draw in the symbol Derek called a rough triskele and the words _humans next_. It was messier than the one on the door, and more threatening for it.

"This is an ultimatum, isn't it?" Up on the steps, Chris knelt down, fingers tracing a footprint in the dirt that covered it. It was bare, with the claws clearly visible. The alpha pack hadn't tried to hide their trail. They _wanted_ to be known, and to be followed. "We give them the bullet, or else." 

Derek stood back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hard. The expression on his face worried Randy; tight and closed in, clearly trying to keep his thoughts to himself. It was the look of a kid who was thinking of doing something stupid.

"They wouldn't go through this much trouble just for a bullet," he finally said, after the silence had stretched too far. "They didn't even try the Sheriff's house yet, and if more of them went after the Argents they could have succeeded. We haven't been able to keep them out yet. Not when they really want to."

"Then what do they want?" Randy tried to keep his tone even, but it was damned hard. His son was on the loose—again—and there was a pile of teenage werewolves on his living room floor, staying together for protection, guarded by a very pissed-off Melissa McCall using a shotgun she'd never touched before in her life. "Why are they doing this?"

Amazingly, Derek's face closed in even more, moving from recalcitrant teenager to unwilling prostate exam. His eyes flicked from Randy to Chris. "Not in front of him."

"Derek—" Randy started, but Chris shook his head and stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. 

"No, I understand," he said. "Hale doesn't have any reason to trust me. If this is werewolf business, I don't need to be involved as long as it _stays_ with werewolves." The last he said with a sharp glance Derek's way that didn't seem to have any effect. Reaching for his holster, he pulled a bullet from the spare ammo bag and tossed it at Derek, who snatched it out of the air without a pause. "I'll go help Melissa watch the children." 

No one said anything as he climbed in his oversized monster of an SUV. Tires crunched over deadfall, and he was gone. Randy gave Derek as much time as he could stand, occupying himself with the crime scene. Which, actually, wasn't a crime scene, but it helped to think of it that way. There were at least three different sets of footprints, only one of them bare. No signs that the deer had been dragged or trucked in, but knowing werewolves, he figured they'd probably just been carried. Derek hadn't needed any help lifting what had to be three hundred pounds of loaded bookshelf. A single deer carcass would have been easy in comparison. 

Without anything official to take care of, inspecting the scene didn't take long, and Randy found himself once again staring at Derek Hale's brooding face. 

"So..." Randy hinted, taking a seat on the steps. Flies hadn't started buzzing around the bodies and they didn't smell yet, so as long as he didn't look there was still a way to pretend they weren't there. "I'm pretty sure Chris is out of earshot. You were saying?"

Derek's eyes lowered, and for a second Randy thought he was going to have to pry some more. He didn't want to—no matter what species Derek was, he was still just a kid. A kid who'd had a rougher time of it than Randy had realized. He ought to have been going to college, doing stupid shit to impress girls and getting a record full of misdemeanors as a result. Instead he was fighting for his life on a semi-constant basis, living... Randy didn't know. Nowhere on record, at least. 

Randy wondered when he'd stopped thinking of Derek as more than just bad news in a leather jacket. 

"They want me." Derek's voice broke through Randy's thoughts. The words were rough, dug up from a hole Derek obviously never wanted to reopen. "They go after small, unstable packs. Omegas, ferals, lone alphas—werewolves with no one to protect them, or whose packs are too weak to survive. After the fire, Laura and I stayed on the move and kept our heads down. We didn't cause trouble, so they let us go.

"And then Peter killed Laura and—everything else happened." 

It was oddly factual to listen to. Easy to take in; Randy had run out of horrified realization for the week. "And that got their attention."

A short, sharp nod was all the answer he got. It was all he needed; from there, it wasn't hard to piece the rest together. The killing spree last fall had gotten a lot of attention in the news. If the alpha pack hunted werewolves, it would have been a giant red flag.

That didn't answer _all_ his questions, though. "Why didn't you run?"

Derek jerked, head turning sharply to stare at Randy with those unnerving red eyes. "What?" 

"I said, why didn't you run?" Waving a hand, Randy took in the decrepit scenery, with its husk of a house and encroaching forest. "This isn't even your family's property anymore, son. The county reclaimed it years ago. So why didn't you leave when it was over and Peter was in the ground? Why go around biting kids and putting _them_ in danger, too?"

Birds chirped in the silence, and somewhere in the woods a pinecone fell from its branch. Derek didn't look away, didn't even look like he was breathing. Slowly, he finally moved, turning his head to stare off into the woods, tracking something Randy couldn't see. 

"Scott," he finally said. "Because of Scott."

"Scott?" Randy repeated, brows furrowing. "What about him?" 

"When the alpha pack came through looking for me, they would have found him. An omega." If anything, the words were even more reluctantly given. "I thought that if I could build up a strong enough pack, they would pass through and we'd all be safe. They don't mess with full packs."

Obviously, Derek hadn't been able to build a strong pack, just a ragtag bunch of teenagers who'd leapt in feet first, the way teenagers always did. Not that different from their alpha.

Standing up, Randy made his way over to where Derek was studiously not looking at anything important. When he clasped his shoulder, he could have sworn the kid jumped. "We'll get through this," he promised. "You're not going to do this alone."

Derek nodded, eyes lowering. Randy patted his shoulder one more time before letting him go, doing them both a favor and pretending he didn't see the way Derek's throat worked. Somewhere, Ariana was laughing at him. She'd always said he had a soft spot for strays. "I'm going to make a run through Stiles' usual haunts. Why don't you go get breakfast with the others?"

"Thank you."

"Anytime. My kid's a werewolf, now. That's practically family, right?"

Another singular nod, but no eye contact. "Yeah." 

Well, they'd gotten a start. Randy turned to walk back to his squad car, and hoped he was making the right decision.

* * *

Derek got rid of the deer by carrying them out into the woods and dumping them. There were enough scavengers around that they wouldn't go to waste, and it wasn't like he had a meat freezer he could hang them in. The Sheriff or Melissa might have been able to take a few steaks, but it really just wouldn't be worth it in the end.

There was no running water to clean up the mess the carcasses had left on the porch, so he made do with dumping some dirt on it to soak up the worst of the blood. Flies would be a problem, and stench once the day warmed up, mixing from gasoline when the alphas had paid their last visit, but there was no one to care. Even Derek didn't care.

He kept his thoughts to a solid, undistorted blank as he worked, letting the physical movement fill the space in his head. It was something he'd gotten good at, over the years. Working out, running, fighting—they all went better without distractions. Just then, he had a lot to avoid thinking about. The bullet Chris had given him sat heavy in his pocket. Its metal shell was enough to keep the wolfsbane from affecting him too badly, but it still itched at his skin. There'd probably be a rash on his hip when he finally got rid of it. 

Not that it mattered.

Scott would be at the Stilinski house, either making breakfast or helping Melissa do it. Chris Argent would be there, too, and his daughter: hunters at a wolf's table. Isaac, who seemed completely happy falling in with whatever Scott happened to be doing. 

And of course, there'd be Erica and Boyd, who'd been so eager to leave his pack that they'd gotten themselves bonded to a freshly bitten feral alpha. If that didn't summarize Derek's last year, he wasn't sure what else would. Other than a headstone and a pair of dates, that was. 

Peter was a survivor. Derek didn't know how he'd pull off his most recent trick, but he didn't doubt that his uncle would come out on top. The kids though... they were _kids_. He'd been dumb to get them involved at all. They belonged safe at home, eating at a table and arguing over who got to clean up, not going from disaster to disaster like a bad TV show. 

Deer cleaned up and porch at least no longer looking like the set of a crime drama, Derek went inside. It was slightly cooler, out of the direct sunlight. Enough of the roof was gone that it wasn't really dark, though. The house made noises as it settled, and somewhere in the remains of the attic there was a family of squirrels. Their claws scratched at charred wood as they scrambled over the beams, chittering and scolding each other. He took one walk around what was left of the house, then sat down at the top of the staircase. 

He didn't have to wait long. Barely ten minutes had gone by before there was the sound of a booted foot on old wood and the door creaked open.

"I thought we might find you here. Predictable." 

Three alpha werewolves trooped in, striding like they owned the place. The one in front was the leader by his scent. Kali followed him; she'd changed clothes since he'd last saw her, but she'd acquired more blood for them. Bringing up the rear came the alpha carrying a stench of slow death and wolfsbane.

Derek didn't bother standing up. "I don't have a reason to run," he shrugged, stretching out his legs so his sneaker heel scraped the farthest step it could. "I'm not the one who got scared off by a bunch of betas and a teenager with a crossbow." 

"Cute." The leader glanced back, and Kali moved to the far edge of the room, blocking the back way out. He stayed at the foot of the stairs looking up, fingers hooked in his belt loops. Everything about him said _power_ , and also _asshole_ , from his messy blond hair down to the steel toes of his boots. He was the kind of alpha Derek's mother warned him about, one of the ones who left a trail of bodies behind him. "My name's Deucalion. And if you're waiting, you must know what we're here for."

The injured one slouched against the wall, clutching his stomach. With a shirt on it was hard to tell, but Derek would bet that the wolfsbane had nearly reached his heart already. For a torso wound, it wouldn't take long. "I can guess."

Deucalion tipped his head, throat bared temptingly. In someone else, it would be submission, but in someone like him, it was a taunt. _You can't get me,_ it said. _I'll even show you my throat and you still won't get me._ Laura had played games like that, when they'd been kids chasing each other around the Preserve. Childish, stupid challenges that Derek had always fallen for.

_Not this time._

"What are you offering?" Deucalion asked. "Must be good, if you're putting yourself out here without your little... _pack_." The last word was almost snorted. Kali openly laughed.

Clenching his teeth on a growl, Derek fought back a flush of anger, even though he couldn't really blame them for laughing. His pack _was_ a joke. That was the whole problem. "I can give you a bullet for numb nuts over there," he offered. "No wait needed, just a cure."

The injured wolf whined hopefully until Kali bared her teeth in his direction. "You know that's not enough," she said, turning back to Derek. "You want us out of town. We'll need more than the solution to a problem _you_ caused and we have... means of solving." She studied her claws pointedly.

Deucalion snorted, glancing sidelong at Kali. "What my lovely pack mate is trying to say is that there needs to be more on the table if you want us to go."

Derek's claws bit into the rotting wood under him. His chest was tight, and every breath was a fight not to growl. Every spare bullet Argent had was locked up in the Stilinskis' house. Derek tried not to picture what would happen if the entire alpha pack went after them. It had taken four betas and a hunter to bring Deucalion to a standstill. The addition of a couple extra humans wouldn't slow them down if they worked together. Bloodbath wouldn't even begin to describe it.

He didn't want to do this. He'd been surviving one way or another for almost seven years; that was a lot of practice in the art of not dying. But he thought about the idiot kids he'd pulled into the catastrophe that was his life. About Scott's yelled _I don't want it_ , and Stiles and Randy and even Allison _fucking_ Argent and...

"Well?" 

"Me." With a heave, Derek pushed himself to his feet. He couldn't make himself look any of them in the eye, didn't want to see the satisfaction there. It would make them think he was weak, but that didn't matter anymore. "I'll give you what you want: a good hunt. We keep it to the woods. No humans, none of the others get involved, and when it's done you leave town and don't come back."

When Derek finally made himself look up, Deucalion seemed surprised. His lips pursed thoughtfully, throat still bared. "Not... precisely what we came here for," he said. "But I suppose we all have to make sacrifices."

"So it's a deal?" 

"Not yet." Deucalion's eyes slipped from Derek's shoulders to his hips and then lower before rising back to his face. "You know, you remind me of your mother."

For a second, it was impossible to breathe. "You knew her?" Derek asked, then cursed himself silently when his voice wavered on the question. 

"In a way," Deucalion shrugged, throwing a glance at Kali that was heavy with a joke Derek didn't think he wanted to know the punch line of. "She was soft on humans, too, wasn't she? Thought we should take care of them. There were even some in her pack."

"My aunt. Cousins." As always when he thought about his family, a hard knot tried to lodge in Derek's throat. "If you didn't come here to kill me, why _did_ you come? Why go after Boyd and Erica?" 

Kali's smile turned wide and sharp. Derek was pretty sure she still had blood in her teeth. "For fun." 

Derek growled. "You—"

Wood shattered overhead. Before Derek could do more than whip around to face the new threat, claws sank into his arms, one on each side. The twins grinned, faces shifted into wolf form. 

Derek roared, twisting to pull free of them, just in time for a hard kick from Deucalion to send him flying across the room. He crashed into one of the walls, then dropped to the floor. As he tried to rise, a booted foot planted itself in between his shoulder blades. 

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Deucalion said softly, rolling his foot so the heel of his boot jabbed into Derek's spine. "This could go so much worse, you know. You're lucky we're kind people." 

"Kind? Like you were kind to my betas? To Stiles?" Derek tried to push up, but claws sank into the back of his neck, close to the spine. It froze him in place, barely breathing. 

The twin alphas, who must have been hiding in the attic, shifted back into human form, both looking unbearably smug. Kali wasn't in sight, but Derek could feel someone tugging at his pocket to retrieve the bullet there.

"Worried about betas and a feral. You really _are_ your mother's son." The weight on Derek's back shifted, and the claws in his neck dug deeper. He could feel Deucalion's breath hot on his skin. "I'm going to have to reject your offer, Derek," the alpha murmured. "You're just not interesting enough to hunt as you are. No _fun_. And what is life without a little fun, hm?"

"I told you he wouldn't be." Fresh footsteps sounded across the room, and Derek's throat locked up. In the corner of his eye, he saw someone approach, sneakered feet and blue jeans. From his angle he couldn't see a face, but he didn't have to. 

"You also told us he'd be here," Kali said. "Two for two."

"I do try."

"I should have known you'd switch sides," Derek snarled, trying to push himself up, only to sag back down when the claws at his neck flexed. The twins' weight wouldn't have held him on their own, but if they took out his spine it was all over. "Two-faced _bastard_ —"

"Now, now, Derek, don't talk like that." Peter knelt down so his face was in Derek's visual range. And he was smiling. Of _course_ he was smiling; he was going to get everything he wanted. "We're family, after all."

"Not anymore." 

Nothing changed in Peter's expression, but Deucalion snorted. " _Family_. Nothing for a werewolf." One sharp claw ran between Derek's shoulders, parting cloth and skin together. He hissed, claws biting into the floor as he tried to arch away from it. 

"You know," Deucalion said, "while we were playing with your little human, Kali discovered a new trick. A shortcut to... nature, you might say. Since _family_ is so important to you, why don't we have your uncle demonstrate?"


	7. Duet

"Derek's not answering his cell."

No one looked up at Boyd's announcement except Scott. "Derek has a _cell phone_?" His eyebrows pinched, like there was something seriously wrong with a universe where Derek didn't communicate through scratches on trees and pissing on fire hydrants. 

Boyd rolled his eyes and dropped down next to Erica on the sofa, pressing their sides tightly together even though there was room. The pack had been cooped up in the Stilinski house all day, and it was starting to get to him. A few months ago, he wouldn't have felt weird staying inside all day, but now it was different. The need to run itched under his skin.

Erica felt it, too. She heaved a sigh and leaned into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. When she'd visited her parents, she'd picked up a change of clothes. They smelled odd on her, a little musty, but good. 

Their patched-together pack was crowded around the coffee table in the living room. The adults—Mrs. McCall and Mr. Argent—had elected to stay in the dining room and "talk". From what Boyd could hear, most of what they were talking about was ways to keep everyone else out of whatever was happening. As long as it kept them busy, he really didn't care. 

"I'll try him." Playing barrier between Allison and Scott, Isaac wiggled to pull his prepaid phone from his pocket and started poking buttons. "Maybe he just didn't hear it go off."

Even Scott rolled his eyes at that one.

Allison snorted and curled her knees in tighter against her chest. "I wouldn't worry about Derek too much. It's not like he hasn't done this before. We're better off staying out of his way."

Against Boyd's side, Erica tensed, nails flexing on his thigh. "Derek's not really a running-off kind of guy," she said, voice taking on the edge that meant she was holding back a growl. 

"No, but he's a doing-stupid-things-and-getting-people-killed kind of guy," Allison snapped, uncurling a little.

Erica's eyes turned gold. "You don't know what you're talking about," she hissed between elongating teeth. "He—"

Boyd growled and wrapped his hand in his, letting her claws dig in. "Now's not the time for this. We have other things to think about."

She glared at him, but put the teeth and claws away after a moment. " _Fine_. Let's focus on Stiles, then, who's probably perfectly happy running around giving everyone a free show. Not like we have a pack of _alpha werewolves_ out for our blood."

"We can't do anything about that," Boyd reminded her, holding her eyes. "But we _can_ help Stiles. We owe him." 

It took a long moment, but eventually she looked away, not cowed, but accepting. 

"We still don't know where he's denning down." Isaac looked up from his phone, shrugging when Boyd raised his eyebrows at him. "Derek's not answering my texts either. Maybe he has it on silent."

That... didn't sound like Derek. Boyd frowned, glancing over toward the kitchen table where the adults were utterly failing at not seeming to listen in. "Maybe." 

Scott let out an explosive huff of breath. "We do know where Stiles is denning, though," he said, voice picking up volume. " _Here_. Won't he just come back once he calms down?" 

"Not if he's frightened." Chris Argent abandoned the dining room to sit down on the floor by Allison. Mrs. McCall trailed in behind him. It looked like the grownups were going to take part of the conversation after all. "If he thinks his den's been compromised, he won't come back to it."

"But the alpha didn't come _here_ ," Scott insisted. "It was at my house, and Allison's. Here's still safe, right? This is his home. He _has_ to come back."

"He's a wild animal, Scott. It doesn't work that way." Mrs. McCall started to say, voice gentle in that mom way parents sometimes had. "He's not thinking rationally—"

"And that's why he'll come back!" Scott snapped, voice rising over his mother's. "Stiles wouldn't abandon people. He came looking once, and he'll do it again. I _know_ he will." 

Argent's lip curled into a sneer. "Waiting for him to come back isn't a solution."

"That doesn't sound like a plan, that sounds like a disaster," Mrs. McCall nodded agreement. She was dressed in scrubs, ready for a late shift. "Wolves in the wild have huge territories. He could be on the far side of it and not come back for a week." 

Something about that pinged Boyd's memory. "What if we lure him in?" he asked slowly. "Make him _want_ to come to us?"

By the way Erica went stiff against him, he knew she remembered, too. "Would that work?" Her body twisted away from him, until her knees dug into his hip. "We knew what we were doing. Would he?"

Isaac and Allison glanced at each other knowingly. _They_ knew. _They should,_ Boyd thought, a little uncharitably. Scott was the only reason Isaac hadn't been with them that night, and Allison... She'd been the reason _they_ were there that night. 

It was funny how things worked out sometimes.

Argent's eyebrows rose. "What are you talking about?" 

"You said he's a wild animal. Why don't we treat him like one?" Edging forward on the couch, Boyd rested his elbows on his knees so he could look at everyone. "Wolves howl to signal their location to the rest of the pack. That's what Derek said before we... left. Erica and I are his pack. If we howl..."

"He'll come find us," Erica finished.

The adults shared a look. Boyd knew that look, so he was already braced when Mrs. McCall said, "I think this is a bad idea."

Argent nodded. "We're better off searching the woods on foot. No reason to do anything stupid."

"But—" Scott's protest was cut off when his mother raised her hand, palm out. 

"The answer is no. End of discussion," Mrs. McCall said in a voice best described as Mom. She flipped her hand over to check her watch where it was upside down on her wrist, then stood up. "I have to get to work. When I get back, we'll discuss this. In the meantime, no heroics."

Boyd smiled. Adults liked him. They _believed_ him. It was a handy skill set to have. "Yes, Ma'am. No heroics."

* * *

_Food_.

He skittered around the pile of dead deer, moving from tree to tree, never coming out of hiding. It smelled like the weak sad-alpha, the one who wasn't a threat, but also like the enemy alphas. Cautiously, one uncertain step at a time, he edged toward the closest carcass. Nothing leaped out at him, tried to chase him off. Another step, and then another, hunkered low, ready to run more if he had to. If he weren't so hungry he wouldn't have risked it. Not in bright morning light when there was so much danger and he was alone. Hunger made his thoughts and legs slow.

 _Meat scent_. Thick and promising enough to make his mouth water, even when some part of him tried to recoil away. He ignored that part. He'd been running and running and running and he was tired and hungry from it. Pack was in danger, but he needed to _eat_.

The meat was cold when he sank his teeth into it. Fresh kill, but not too fresh. Enough that the eyes were still cloudy, not rotted out, and the stomachs hadn't bloated. It was good, copper on his tongue, blood scent in his nose as his teeth sliced through summer fat and muscle. He ate what he could, a pitiful amount for what there was, and then buried the rest. Food for later, when his pack was with him. A full deer would feed them for a good while. 

He was kicking one last layer of old leaves over the body when a wolf howl close by made him freeze. It wasn't a pack howl, not his, but it was _familiar_ , the way that his pack was familiar, old memories that were stronger than instinct. The sound clawed at him, had him moving _to_ when he would have run, _should_ have run. 

It was coming from the burned-den, the place that smelled like fire and fear and sadness. Just then, it smelled like _enemy_. Sounds came from inside, crashing noises and sharp barking noises that should have been bad, but weren't. Human noises. And a wolf. Low whines, cries of pain, the snap of teeth.

"Come on, Derek, you can do better than that."

"He's even _more_ dull this way, isn't he? We should have just killed him."

"There's still time."

Careful, _careful_ , he crept up to the open door, peering inside, crouching awkwardly so his hurt leg didn't have to bend. The alpha pack had the sad-alpha trapped, taunting him, clawing him up and then throwing him back in. The empty-alpha, the old _enemy_ watched, leaning back against a wall while it happened. Sad-alpha didn't try to escape much, only bit when they attacked him. He smelled confused, hurt, but not _bloodpain_ hurt.

The need to run trembled in his legs. _Dangerscaryhurt_. The sad alpha wasn't his pack. Wasn't _his_. Would bite and snarl and fight, would try to take his pack. 

_But_.

He whined low in his throat, unable to stop himself. Immediately the alpha pack stopped, five pairs of red eyes turning towards him.

As soon as they looked away, the weak alpha leaped. One of the twin-cubs went down, blood spraying across the floor as his throat was ripped open. The sick angry-alpha was next, insides pouring out as he was clawed open. Enemy alphas snarled and turned on him, but the sad-alpha bolted past them and ran for the door, all four legs pumping. Their shoulders brushed as he darted past and out into the woods.

That was all it took. Turning, he followed on the other alpha's heels. Claws raked down his back, across a thigh where one of the enemies came too close, but he didn't slow down to fight. Panic pounded through his veins, made his heart race. As soon as he found a good tree he jumped, scrambling into the branches, leaping from limb to limb. Sad-alpha stayed on the ground, cutting across paths that were barely paths, splashing into a creek.

Below, the enemy pack fell behind, not able to follow the same paths like they did, not knowing the woods or the trees. And still he ran and ran and ran until the scent of alpha was far away and the only sound was his own heartbeat.

In the distance, a wolf howled.

* * *

Erica closed her eyes and listened as her howl bounced around in the forest, fists clenched tight as the sound sent shivers down her. It was too easy to remember what had happened the last time she'd heard howling in the woods. Not looking was easier; she didn't have to see Allison, sitting over by Scott's backpack, resting her own on her knees as if she'd never chased anyone down like a wild animal, didn't have to see Boyd and remember sight of arrows punching through him. Scent took over instead—the smell of Scott just a few feet away, Isaac right behind her, the charcoal and, weirdly, gasoline of the old house. 

The old Hale place was the only landmark they all knew, so it made sense to pile into the Jeep—handily borrowed thanks to Scott knowing where the keys were—and do it there. It was dark and faintly creepy, but there was something comfortable about it. No matter who held the deed, it was _theirs_ in a way that went down to the bone. It would be the first place the adults looked when they realized that no one was where they were supposed to be, but hopefully by then they'd have Stiles on a leash anyway. 

She howled again, louder, trying to find that pitch that made it carry.

Somewhere out in the woods, Stiles answered. It rattled her chest and _tugged_ , the way Derek's yells used to. Erica's eyes popped open. "That was him," she gasped, reaching out to grab at Boyd's shirt. Fangs poked the inside of her lips. 

Boyd bumped her shoulder with his, hand wrapping around hers. "Yeah."

"You feel it too." She didn't have to feel the way his claws dug into the back of her hand to know, she just _did_. Her legs trembled. She wanted to run, to run and _run_ until their pack was together again. 

"What?" Scott's hand was suddenly on her shoulder, holding her in place, smelling _wrong_ but right. "What's happening?" 

_His eyes changed too,_ Erica noticed from a distance, blinking slowly at Scott. There was something significant about that, but it was just out of reach...

"Their alpha is calling them." 

Erica stumbled as she whipped around, heartbeat rising and teeth bared in a growl. 

On the porch, Peter smiled smoothly. He'd stretched out his legs and was watching with his usual amused look, as if he hadn't been missing all damned day. "Hello, children. Nice evening, isn't it? Makes you want to _run_." 

"Where have you been?" Scott demanded, eyes turning a darker gold. His teeth had changed, sharpening a little. Beside him, Isaac was growling, a low, constant purr of sound. 

"Oh, here and there." Peter's fingers flicked back and forth, waving away the question. "Hunting. I think you'll have better luck, though. He seems to want to listen for you." 

Boyd's claws in Erica's hand flexed. They weren't piercing. Just there, a touch. "He's right," he said, eyes glowing yellow. "It's working." 

Some part of her thought that it shouldn't have been as easy as it was--it should be a struggle when they were werewolves, a fight to force it through. But then Boyd was howling, and it dragged one from her, too. The sound wrapped around her stomach and pulled itself out of her throat, whether she wanted to or not. Scott joined them, his howl louder, fuller somehow. It resonated. For a moment, they sounded like a real pack.

Again, the reply came. Two of them.

Before Erica had finished calling, Peter and Isaac shoved into the group eyes flashing dangerously blue and gold. It forced her to let go of Boyd's hand as Peter pressed them apart. It was everything she could do not to snap at him and take a chunk out of his arm. 

"Why were there two of them?" Allison demanded, voice shaky. She clutched at Scott, differences set aside for the moment. 

Isaac shook his head. Other than his eyes he hadn't lost control, but he smelled like wolf, half ready to change and full of potential violence. "What was _that_?" 

The last of the howl echoed off the trees, carried by the warm night breeze, but no more cries came. Erica caught herself straining to hear them, but the silence was living, breathing. If there were any more answers, they weren't reaching her. 

Peter stood stock-still in the moonlight a few yards in front of them. His eyes had gone back to normal, but he was grinning, wide and pleased. Something about it sent a shiver crawling down Erica's back with tiny cold feet. "What we've been looking for." 

"What _who's_ been looking for?" Scott asked, voice rising with urgency. "What's going on? Tell us!" 

Behind them, someone chuckled. "Now, wouldn't that ruin the surprise?" 

Instinctively, the collected pack yelled and pulled into a knot, backs together for protection. Erica found herself jostled between two sets of shoulders, her claws extending. She nearly tripped over Scott's bag, something inside it going _clink_. 

Deucalion had taken Peter's place on the porch steps, as casually as if he'd been there the whole time. Maybe he had been, just out of sight. His smile was clearly visible in the moonlight, along with his claws. Three other alphas were with him, practically _posed_. 

Kali laughed and leaned over the banister she'd chosen to prop herself against, claws grating on wood. Even fifty feet away, she reeked of blood and slow death. "Surprised to see us? You can't howl an invitation and then be surprised when it's answered."

Erica's hackles stood up. Not for the first time, she wondered if a taste for dramatic entrances went with being a werewolf. Certainly she'd been getting a lot more chances at them since taking the bite. Even Scott had pulled a few, and he was _Scott_. 

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Peter's voice came from somewhere behind her, on the opposite end of the circle. When she twisted, she could see his relaxed shoulders, the claws peeking out from his fingertips. "The children were being terribly loud, after all."

"We were a bit distracted." Deucalion's eyes reflected the moonlight as he leaned forward. "Shopping for gifts is terribly tedious. But we're here now. And so's the puppy pack." 

One of the twins slipped to the side, stepping off the porch, while Locke did the same on the other side. They didn't try to hide that they were circling around, cutting off the pack's escape. 

A stab of panic sliced through Erica's stomach as she realized she couldn't see the other twin. Her pulse pounded in her ears, making it hard to think, to _breathe_. Isaac pressed against her left shoulder, with Scott and Boyd close by, each of them as tense as she was. Somehow, it made her even more nervous, as if their fear fed hers. She stumbled back, shoulders brushing against someone else's.

Someone grabbed her hand, tangling their fingers together. Allison's scent hit her nose hard, but when she tried to yank away the hunter held on.

" _Stay together_ ," Allison whispered. 

"One's missing," she tried to hiss back, but it came out as more of a growl. Her eyes darted around the clearing, scanning around to locate the other one. They _always_ worked together. He had to be out there. "There's at least one more. One of the twins."

"Now, now, Erica. Don't assume." A clawed hand wrapped around her throat suddenly, yanking her off her feet. She could feel Peter's breath against her ear as he purred, "You know what that makes you and me, don't you?"

"Let her go!" Boyd roared, flinging himself at Peter. But Locke was already in position, catching Boyd in midair and sending him flying into a tree. He rolled to his feet, but didn't attack again.

Peter held her a good foot off the ground, legs kicking. Erica clawed at his hand and arm, but he didn't even flinch. Her heart was pounding in her ears; she couldn't _breathe_. Aiden took up Peter's other side, playing guard dog, snapping and snarling as the pack circled.

"Much better," Deucalion announced. He stood, rolling his shoulders and neck. As Erica watched through slowly blackening vision, his face transformed, first to beta and then to something worse. His jaw cracked as a muzzle started to push out of his face, bones rearranging grotesquely. " _Howl_ , pups," he ordered, voice gone low and grizzly with the new shape of his face. "Call your alphas. Do your little trick."

"How about we show you a better one?" Diving to the ground, Scott grabbed up his bag and heaved. It slammed into the steps with a sound of shattering glass that was quickly eaten by the ball of flame that spread over the porch, zipping a line through the door that burned blue. More flames flared up around him, leaves and old wood catching in a flash. 

The alphas scattered, even Deucalion springing away as the flames curled up around the old house. 

Sensing her chance, Erica slammed her head back. Something crunched—Peter's nose, she thought. He dropped her, staggering back. Her vision was still blurring in and out, but she staggered away. A hand grabbed hers, yanking her to her feet. It was Boyd, pulling her along as fast as her unsteady legs could move.

Behind her, Scott roared, " _Run_!"

That was all it took to spook the pack into motion. They scattered, dashing for the trees. Erica's hand stayed locked around Boyd's, dragging him along with her. Branches cracked underfoot, rotting leaves making the path treacherous. Moonlight illuminated the way, flashing by in streams and flickers, keeping her feet on the path. 

Behind them, Peter roared again, and one of the alphas answered. Wood crashed like something heavy being thrown into it. A hint of smoke carried on the breeze. 

Erica ran faster, lungs still burning for air. Trees whipped past, thin branches slapping her face and legs. She ignored it all, letting instinct guide her.

After who knew how long, Boyd started to slow down, tugging on her hand. "I think we're far enough away." 

The adrenalin was still pumping in her veins, screaming _go go go_ , but Erica let herself be slowed down, let Boyd sling an arm around her so the scent of pack overwhelmed the lingering smoke. Slowly, she loosened her grip, realizing too late that her claws had embedded in his palm. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Boyd squeezed her hand again, even though it worried the still-open wounds, and tilted his head back. "Where do you think we are?" His eyes flashed yellow for a second as he slipped into the werewolf's skin before easing back down. 

"Lost?" Erica laughed and staggered when he bumped her.

"You know what I mean," he huffed, rolling his eyes. 

"Don't blame me for an honest answer." Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out the phone Argent had given her. It was one of the cheap pay-as-you-go phones, but she hadn't been about to argue when Argent forced it on her. Cell phones had saved their asses too many times for her to have refused it, even if this one was lacking in every single non-phone feature. 

Just then, she was getting what they'd paid for. "No signal. Guess we're hoofing it back to civilization again."

Boyd's expression set into stern lines as he thought that over, then shrugged with resignation. "Could be worse, I guess."

Her eyebrows rose. "We're in the middle of the woods with no bars, no food and an alpha pack on our tail. How?"

"We could be naked."

Erica laughed, using it as an excuse to sag into Boyd's side, wiggling until she was firmly wedged under his arm. "Or we could be with McCall." 

His smile should have made the sun come up. "See? I told you. Could be worse."

* * *

Derek.

He knew his name. It rolled around on his tongue, short, sharp sounds that he couldn't think to twist his lips around, but he _knew._ He couldn't remember _why_ he had to hold on to it, but he did. There were memories, soft voices and hands telling him to hold on to it like an anchor while the moon danced overhead and the pack ran below. 

There wasn't a pack anymore. Just a burned place that smelled like death and fire and guilt. They were all gone, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't smell _where,_ couldn't follow. He circled it, running out into the forest before cutting back, looking for their trail. No mother-scent, and the sister-scent was so faint he could barely make it out. Only a little fresher was false-mate scent, bitter and hard and covered in death. There were two out there somewhere, two whose scents he recognized from after-the-fire, but they wouldn't come. _Hadn't_ come when he howled, when the alpha pack had him trapped.

Derek passed by the dead-den again before moving out into the woods while the sun set through the trees, casting long shadows that made good places to hide in. Now it smelled even more like death, like _victory_ , where the cub had bled out on the floor. Still no scent of his pack, the old or the new one. Just in case, he howled again, listening hard for even the hint of an answer. 

No one came. 

There was a kill out there, only starting to go ripe. He remembered dragging it out, dumping it. _Why_ he didn't know. You didn't _leave_ good meat. You buried it, saved it for hard times when the food was too fast or the pack too slow. But he was smarter, knew better, knew what to do.

Maybe his pack would come for meat.

He sniffed out the trail he'd left when he'd moved the food, feet slow and quiet in the leaves. It was further out than he liked. He didn't want to leave the dead-den where the other alphas could have it. There wasn't much to it, but it was _his_. 

Someone else had been on the trail, too. They smelled familiar. Not pack, but almost, maybe something that tasted like pack. Dangerous, but not a threat. It made Derek slide sideways, circle around wide to come in from behind, more curious than afraid. He was the alpha; he could fight off almost anything, and run from the rest. He had to be strong, to make his pack want to run with him.

Another wolf was at the first kill. He wasn't eating, just _there_ , curled into the base of a tree, while piles of dirt and leaves all but covered the scent of meat. Bright red eyes watched as Derek stepped out of the safety of the shadows, fangs bared in a warning snarl. _Alpha_. The one who'd been at the dead-den, who'd run away with him for a little while when the alpha pack chased. 

There were two other spots, Derek remembered. Unclaimed, still fresh. They didn't need to fight over it. He could have those, leave the first to the other alpha. 

But he was lonely. His pack was gone, all but two who didn't come and weren't there. And the other alpha smelled almost like pack, like familiar things, wolves that were-but-not his. They'd been almost like pack, Derek thought, running and fighting together. He remembered a stench of hard chemicals in his nose and not being able to move, a burn of poison crawling up his veins while the other alpha stared at him. The other one had helped him then.

One cautious step at a time, he eased closer, stepping around the food so it wouldn't be between them, not looking at it, not sniffing it. The other alpha's snarl faded when he didn't show interest in the meat. He let Derek get close, only shuffling back twice when Derek moved too fast. One of his legs didn't bend right, wouldn't hold him, and he whined when it tried to give way. 

_He_ didn't have any of the covering-things Derek still hadn't entirely scraped off yet, though there were some smells on him like there used to be. Nothing kept his hind-claws from digging into the dirt, or his sides from leaving thick scent marks as he passed. That was good, that he'd gotten rid of them. _Smart_. Derek liked that the other alpha was smart.

They got close enough to sniff each other, noses brushing. Up close, the other alpha smelled even more familiar. Derek knew him from before, somehow. And that was good. _Nice_. He was smart, and smelled good. Leaning down, Derek touched the hurt leg. The wolf snapped and whined, head low, leg curled up awkwardly under him to protect it. But he didn't move away, and Derek was able to get up close enough to sniff it. The injury smelled old, healed, but underneath there were things that moved wrong. They circled, shuffling around getting closer and closer without touching until there was essentially no space left between them to move in. 

Sighing, Derek planted himself in the dirt and leaned in hopefully, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

At first, it didn't seem like the other alpha would accept him. His whole body went tense and still, and Derek was sure he was going to be snapped at. Then a questioning nose pressed against his neck, warm breath on his skin. Everything went soft, and the weight he was pressing into the shoulder next to his was returned. Their cheeks touched, breath mingling, and it was good. 

Neither of them moved for a long time. The sun finished setting, stars coming out overhead. It was a nice, warm night, dark and safe. Other predators gave them a wide berth, even with the smell of so much meat nearby. 

The moon was just cresting the treetops when the first howl sounded. Another followed it, low and questioning, echoing the first. His new friend's head rose, twisting toward the noise, eyes glowing red. Tipping his head back, he answered full-throated and long. 

Derek whined, bumping his shoulder. It wasn't _Derek's_ pack calling; he didn't want to leave when he was comfortable and safe and not lonely. 

But the other alpha nudged him, excited, eager, whole body vibrating with energy. With a huff, Derek heaved himself up, leaning on the other for a moment, just to do it. Their feet kicked around in the leaves, Derek's slipping with the _things_ on his hind feet. He kicked at them, twisting to gnaw at the things on them. 

The other alpha whined and snapped at his side playfully, dashing off a few steps only to circle around and come back, bumping him and running away again.

_Run!_

He circled around Derek, brushing their sides together, leaning into him so hard that his feet slipped out from under him on the old leaves. Derek huffed and snapped at him, bounding away a few steps to dart around. Another round of howls sounded, louder, with more voices in the song. This time, when his friend answered, Derek joined him. 

Then, with a few more playful bumps and nips, they were off, following the calls of pack. The moon lit the way easily and they didn't rush, weaving in and out of the trees at a slow trot. Small prey scurried nearby, rustling the underbrush. The other wolf left him a few times to give chase, flushing them out and sprinting after, but he always came back to lean against Derek's shoulder for a bit before darting off again. He bumped Derek to try and get him to follow, licking at his cheek. Derek huffed and bumped back, but stayed behind, content to watch the other alpha chase rabbits.

About halfway, Derek's head came up. _Pack_. He could smell them—his two, beta-scent and uncle-scent, a bad scent now. Full of hurt, betrayal. But there was something else, something familiar and dangerous. His friend smelled it too; his feet slowed and he whined unhappily, teeth bared. 

In the distance, something roared, and the breeze carried the scent of fire. A moment later, the woods exploded with noise, cracking branches and loud cries.

They bolted. This time Derek hugged the other alpha's shoulder so he wouldn't go up a tree or fall behind, nipping his flanks to keep him in line. The other didn't fight being herded, just stretched out and ran as fast as his hurt leg would let him. Underbrush lashed at their sides, leaving long scratches that stung for the flash of a second before they healed.

Something big moved just ahead of them, following their path. _Predatordangernotpack_. Derek growled, putting on a burst of speed, throwing himself at its legs. It yelled and went down, flailing limbs smacking Derek in the face as it scrambled to escape. He lowered his head, teeth bared. 

"Oh my god..." The beta wolf with the funny jaw hitched himself up, even while his feet worked to back him away from Derek's teeth. " _Derek_?!"

* * *

Scott scrambled away, kicking himself back until his shoulders pressed up against a tree trunk. His heart crawled up into his throat and his lungs seized. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought he was having an asthma attack. 

Derek glared at him, eyes red like someone messing around with laser pointers. Nothing in his face showed any recognition, but that was standard with Derek. What wasn't standard was the growling. Surly as Derek was, he usually settled for glares. Growling was reserved for when he was about to try and do serious damage.

Not good. Not good at _all_. If Derek had gone feral too, he didn't think he could stop Mr. Argent from killing him. He wasn't even really sure how Mr. Stilinski was keeping the hunters in line to start with. Getting that extended to Derek wasn't likely. 

"Come on, dude," Scott tried, not proud of how his voice wobbled, "you know me. Don't make me kick your ass."

If anything, the growl rose in volume. Derek stayed down on all fours as he stalked toward Scott, legs stiff and teeth bared.

Without warning, something barreled out of the trees and slammed into Derek's side. Scott shouted in surprise, flailing backwards into a pile of leaves. He came up just in time to be presented with...

With Stiles' naked ass in his face.

"Oh God," Scott groaned, trying to look anywhere else. Trees. They were nice. And also not naked. Like his best friend, who definitely was still bare naked to the world, and so probably still clocked out on his higher brain functions. "I didn't need to see that!" 

Stiles and Derek ignored him, too busy staring one another down. The growls had faded to low rumbles and the alpha eyes had gone, but none of that was really reassuring. He didn't know what he'd do if they started fighting. Breaking up dog fights in the vet's wasn't something Deaton had ever let him handle. Anyway, he didn't think a bucket of water would do the trick this time. 

At least Derek still had his clothes mostly on. Points to him, with a bonus for pants. Being bros and on the lacrosse team, Scott had of course seen Stiles naked, but Scott was definitely feeling that part of their friendship strain just then. There was a limit to butt-in-face contact Scott could take in a single lifetime, and Stiles had already used it up when they were fourteen. 

The last of the growls faded. Derek huffed loudly and dropped his ass into the leaves, looking away. Stiles stepped in closer, brushing their shoulders together and, yes, licked Derek's cheek. Weirder, Derek let him. 

Scott was so never letting Stiles live this down. Carefully, he started to climb to his feet, brushing off his knees and butt. "Great. You're friends. That's just— great. Really. I'm happy for you. Now can we—"

Leaves flew, and once again he found himself knocked to the ground. Derek pinned him down, snarling. Whatever had caused Stiles to save him the first time seemed to have worn off—his best bud was sitting off to the side, looking completely unconcerned as his new bestie menaced his old.

Remembering some of the programs that played in the vet's lobby, Scott froze. Slowly, he lifted his chin, and hoped that he wasn't about to get himself messily killed. Part of him hated it, but Derek was stronger, faster and—at the moment—significantly shorter on marbles. Scott could stand a little submission if it didn't get his throat ripped out. He'd get revenge later, when Derek would just glare at him. 

Still growling, Derek snuffled Scott's face. He moved down from there, sticking his nose everywhere there was to stick it—Scott's neck, his armpit and stomach. When he reached Scott's crotch, Scott held very, very still, even moreso than he had when Derek had been at his throat. 

Some things were sacred. 

Derek stuck his whole head between Scott's legs, getting a good whiff of bits even Allison didn't spend much time on. Then he sneezed and sat back, apparently satisfied with whatever he'd been smelling. 

"I swear to God, if either of you try to pee on me..." Once again, Scott sat up, more slowly than the last time. Neither of the feral wolves seemed to care, so Scott figured it was safe to assume they were in the clear. "I'm still not in your pack."

The woods were starting to settle into a late night, crackly sort of quiet. Animals moved and tree limbs broke, but none of it was dangerous. There were even crickets out there somewhere. Maybe it was even a little too quiet. Normally, Scott didn't go too far away from the roads and paths. There wasn't anything to go in _for_. It was _boring_.

The first thing he did was check his phone. Predictably, there wasn't a signal, because that was just the way Scott's life worked ever since he became a werewolf. He tried circling the clearing, but couldn't find any sign of where they were. Enough stars were visible that he could work out his compass points—with a silent thanks to Stiles for the lesson back when they'd been kids—but that could only help so much. He'd been running north, which meant the Hale place—if he had any intention of going back to it, which he didn't—was to the south. How _far_ to the south was the question. The Preserve was huge, and he was pretty sure he'd been running for a while at top speed. The second Erica had been free, his legs had just kicked in and away he'd gone. 

Which brought his thoughts right back to the latest development in the soap opera that was his life. Peter was the least self-sacrificing person Scott had ever met, but he'd _thought_ Peter would at least pick the side least likely to casually off him. He made Batman villains look selfless. "Do either of you know what Peter's up to?" he asked, as much to hear a voice as anything else. "You don't think he'd make a deal with the alphas, right? It's a double-cross." 

Stiles' eyes tracked Scott restlessly, like he was afraid Scott would just vanish or run off. Given their history, that was probably fair. He whined and stretched out, practically on top of Derek, who didn't look too unhappy with that and no, Scott wasn't going to think about that too deeply. 

"No, you're right," Scott answered, as if Stiles had said anything worth answering. "Starting something like this would have been too risky. And he's evil. And crazy. And evil. Who knows how his brain works."

Two sets of red eyes watched him judgmentally. Scott could feel them judging. It was possibly worse than Stiles' continuing nudity. 

"You don't have to be like _that_." Sighing, Scott dropped down to the ground next to Stiles. The damp soaked through his jeans immediately, but that had happened just about everywhere already. He didn't try to get in on the cuddle-fest, but Stiles shifted around so his legs were in Scott's lap anyway. One of his knees looked swollen, the bone more knobby and weird than usual. When Scott tried to move it for a closer look, Stiles growled a warning and jerked it away. 

"I'm just _looking_ , geez," Scott told him absently, leaning over Stiles' knee more carefully. Other than the anatomy part, it wasn't that different from working with the dogs at the vet. As long as he kept his voice calm and didn't do anything too painful, he figured he'd be okay. And it wasn't like Stiles biting him would be more than kind of annoying. "It's broken. You're a werewolf, how did you get a broken leg?" 

Of course there was no answer. That was going to get old fast. A Stiles that wasn't capable of keeping verbal pace with Scott was just _weird_. It wasn't even like that time Stiles had strep and had lost his voice for a week when he'd been eight. Then there'd been gestures and notes and they'd pretty much worked out their own form of sign language before it was over. This really was like talking to a dog, making noise just to make noise and hoping that some part of it got through to whatever part of Stiles was calling the shots. 

Scott settled his hand over the swollen joint and pulled some of the pain from it. The process felt like something with prickly little feet crawling under his skin. Thick black ropes twisted up his arm, following the veins in a way that reminded him of what Derek looked like with wolfsbane poisoning. When he finished, Stiles had relaxed completely, body limp and eyes closed. 

"We should probably go find the others," Scott said, patting Stiles' bare thigh. "Your dad's looking for you, you know. He's worried."

Derek cracked open an eye that was barely visible under Stiles' all-encompassing form of cuddling. He huffed and turned his head, hiding it under Stiles' chest. 

"Well, he is." Scott looked over the two feral werewolves, then up at the sky. He didn't want to leave them there, but... "Will you follow me?" he asked Stiles, moving his legs off his lap. Stiles grumbled unhappily at that, but didn't try and keep Scott from getting up. "Come on, let's go. Get up." Gently, Scott nudged Stiles shoulders with the toe of his shoe, then his hips. When that only got him an unhappy growl, he tried Derek. "Get up, come _on_ , we need to go."

If he didn't know better, he would have thought Derek and Stiles shared an exasperated look Stiles rolled over, managing to flatten himself out even more across Derek's back. No amount of prodding or pushing moved them. 

"You guys are going to owe me big time after this," Scott told them, slumping back against the most comfortable-looking tree. "So big. You'll be buying my silence through college. You hear me, Stiles?" 

Stiles bared his teeth in a massive yawn.

"Yeah," Scott sighed, head sagging back. "Me too."

* * *

The moon had made her way overhead when he woke up, a need to move itching under his skin. The brave-beta was still curled up against a tree like an idiot, all alone and asleep. But his alpha, sad-alpha warm-alpha _partner_ -alpha was stretched out next to him, grumbling sleepily into his neck. That was nice, _safehappygood_ , building something that would make things better. 

Stretching comfortably, he reached up to gnaw at the other alpha's ear, worrying it between his teeth until it was yanked away with a tolerant huff. Once the chew-spot was gone, he moved down, licking and worrying at his alpha's neck and shoulders, nuzzling funny marking on his back, biting at the cloth things on his hind end. 

_Uprun_.

The ribs got him what he wanted. He nuzzled then once and his alpha jerked, growling a warning. Another nudge rolled the alpha over, onto his feet with a worried look over at their beta. 

Bouncing hopefully, he dropped his forequarters, then darted in to lean hard into his partner's side. They pressed in a circle, staying close together, weight supporting each other. He smelled it when his partner-alpha started to get interested, the dark _wantgoodwarm_ scent that sat on the back of his tongue with promise.

Brave-beta would be okay alone. He wanted to _play_. 

It took a little more work, some circling and gnawing before he finally got the other alpha to chase. Little beams of moonlight shot down through the trees, lighting everything as they darted in and out, startling animals out of their holes and chasing them on two legs until they got bored and dropped back to four. He showed off, climbing trees to get ahead, or to circle around behind and startle his playmate from the rear.

Then one time, he circled around and his alpha wasn't there. He pulled up short, whining at the empty clearing, sniffing the ground for trails. The scents crisscrossed, running back and forth where they'd run through before. Every one he followed, circling worriedly, trying to find the freshest one, the _right_ one. 

He didn't _want_ to be alone again. 

Then, out of nowhere, partner alpha burst through the underbrush, barreling into him and knocking him to the ground. He snapped, teeth bared in annoyance. In answer, partner-alpha huffed and mouthed at his jaw apologetically, shouldering him up onto his feet so they could drag their cheeks against one another, then their sides. 

Sighing, he accepted the apology with a bump of the head. He just wished he could get them together for more than a few moments at a time before something scary happened. How were they supposed to den up, to hunt and be a pack if they kept losing each other?

Partner-alpha huffed and bumped his head against his ribs, dropping down. He bumped back, knocking him over and, sniffing down between other-alpha's legs. Even after running so much, the covering on his hind end was still mostly solid, with only a few holes, and none of them large. Finding one of them, he stuck his nose in to touch skin, sneezing when hair tickled it. 

Painstakingly methodical, he worried at the covering with claws and teeth until the hole got bigger and he was able to rip it all the way. Higher up it was thicker, holding it on, but claws worked well there, gripping and ripping. Partner-alpha nearly bent himself in two to help, but when he shoved partner-alpha back to the ground he seemed to give up, making an amused noise and leaving him to it. Without partner-alpha in the way, it still took some time to get everything off. Metal bits popped off fast enough, and that made things easier and looser. 

That ended up being a distraction too, when the cloth parted and he could get down to salty, musk-smelling skin. His burrowing ended up pushing the cloth thing down, but by then he'd already forgotten about his mission to get rid of it. It smelled good there, dark and earthy. Still like cloth a bit, but mostly like partner-alpha, like sex and skin and good things. He dragged his nose along his dick, licking curiously, and then further down where it was softer but still smelled good. 

The last of the cloth shredded under his claws, taking a bit of skin with it. Nosing his way down, he lapped at the scratches until they started to heal, then higher up where it smelled _best_. 

Partner-alpha made an odd whining noise in the back of his throat, entire body jerking when he nuzzled his hip. The musky odor turned sharper, heavy with arousal. It curled through him, making his heart skip faster and his dick ache. He dragged his tongue along it, tasting _sweatdirtsex_. 

With a twist and a bark of noise, the other alpha rolled over him, nipping playfully. His tongue dragged along his jaw and neck, scraping roughly where hair had finally started to grow. Butting their heads together, he scampered off, feet sliding in the leaves and knee giving only a little throb as they circled. 

Back and forth they went, darting in and out, never doing anything that would hurt. Partner-alpha's teeth rasped over his jaw, the nape of his neck, the back of his leg, and each one sent another happy thrill through him. Their circle got tighter and tighter, until a tongue slid up under his belly to lap at his dick. When he turned, the other alpha's hindquarters were to him. It only made sense to lick back, tongue sliding along soft, puckered skin that smelled more like him than anything else. His tongue worked all along the inside of partner-alpha's thighs, up across his balls and higher. 

A low, rumbling groan dragged through the other male, ending in a high-pitched whine. And then his hips swung closer, squared and inviting. It was easy, _right_ , to rise up, claws digging into hard ribs and flesh, to rut against warm soft skin that smelled good and perfect. He rocked them together, arching up to bite at the back of his mate's neck, his jaw, anywhere he could reach. 

Hot flesh gripped him as he thrust, dry skin catching and pulling and _goodhottightgood_. Under him, his mate whined and arched, and the scent of heat and sex got stronger. Pain jolted through his knee as he fought to stay upright, hips snapping until everything came down in a rush.

They curled up together afterwards for a long time, noses buried and limbs tangle. Not sleeping, it was the wrong time for sleeping. But it was good, just being together, sharing scents and warmth.  
The moon was farther along when his stomach gave an unhappy twist. _Hungry_. All the little things he'd eaten were _little_ , and the deer he'd found were back near the big fire where the enemy-alphas were. But he had a beta and a mate with him now, good for hunting, for bringing down big prey.  
It didn't take much to get his new mate up the second time. A couple nudges and a whine did it, rousting him out with only a little bit of snarling. Staying pressed together, they followed their trail back the way they'd come.  
But his brave-beta wasn't there. Just like everything else, he was gone gone _gone_. A hard tightness curled through his chest and clawed his throat. He wanted his pack, _needed_ his pack, needed to keep them safe, to _be_ safe and he _couldn't_. They kept _going away_.  
He stared at the spot the brave-beta had been curled up in, hindquarters dropping out from under him. Sensing his upset, his mate whined, tucking his chin over his shoulder and leaning hard into him.  
 _Herenotgonehere_ the touch said. _Togetherpacknotgone_.  
Whining softly, he turned and buried his head in his mate's side, getting his ear and cheek and neck licked. He stayed hidden there until he was nudged away, made to stand on his own feet while partner-alpha circled, sniffing out the trail. All at once, his mate lifted his head up and howled, calling their lost beta.  
After a moment, he threw back his own head and called too, letting their voices bounce off each other and blend to fill the sky.  
No one answered.

* * *

Randy ran his hand through his hair and rubbed tired eyes. He was nine hours into trying to make sense of it all, long past the point when he should have gone to bed. But sleep wasn't going to come without a short trip into a long necked bottle, and he knew where that road led. Bad as things were, he couldn't risk it. 

It would have helped if there'd been less to make sense of. He could, maybe, sketch in a rough timeline if he squinted and systematically eliminated all the bodies he could definitively tie to the events Derek had told him about. Kate, Gerard, Peter, the Kanima—things he'd already connected, but they made a hell of a lot more sense once he knew werewolves were involved.

That still left a lot of bodies unaccounted for. 

Realizing that was a sick sort of twist in his stomach. There were a lot of them, "wild animals" and crazed killers that had been unofficially written off as connected to the others. Beacon Hills was a small town that had never seen so many high profile cases before; it was natural for the department to try and link them, even on flimsy pretext. But once he started applying what he _knew_ , the links fell apart. 

How many murders had slipped the net because he hadn't been able to see past the tip of his nose?

Around four AM, his phone rang. He didn't even glance at the caller ID before picking up. "Stilinski."

"We've got a problem." Chris Argent never sounded happy, even when he was, but his voice was downright grim. "I need you to come out to the old warehouse district immediately. I'll text you the address."

Randy swallowed, intuition kicking in. Dread started growing in his throat, a heavy, familiar weight. He'd carried it for three years while Ariana had been dying and he still hated it. "How many?"

There was a pause, and the sound of something metal clanking in the background. "Hard to tell," Chris finally said. "At least two. Maybe more. There's... pieces."

He was going to be sick. _Pieces, Jesus God in Heaven._ Swallowing back his rising bile, Randy rose from his chair and reached for his travel case. "Official or unofficial?" he asked, balancing the cell phone against his ear as he double-checked his supplies. It was a new addition to his daily routine, holding the search map from when they'd been tracking the alphas, the "official" search information on Stiles' disappearance that he'd abused his privileges to get, and a few items that seemed like they might come in handy. One of those was the gun with its specialty bullets Chris had given him. Now that werewolves were officially going to be part of his life, he wasn't going to be caught dead without it. Especially not when "dead" could be very, very literal.

Once again, Chris hesitated. That... wasn't good. "Unofficial for now. Consider me a concerned citizen who thought he saw something suspicious as I drove by. We'll escalate if we have to."

Randy made a face. "If there's... _pieces_ you know that I can't—"

"I've been doing this for a long time," Chris interrupted. "You have your job and your resources. I have mine. We'll discuss it when you get here." Without even a goodbye, the phone chimed to let Randy know the call had been ended.

He grimaced and pulled the thing from his ear. "Just what I don't need," Randy muttered, finishing his checkup and heading out. 

The drive to the warehouse district wasn't long. No drive in Beacon Hills really was. It was amazing they even had a warehouse district, but that was what happened when you stood between a major manufacturing city, the nearest port city and the highway. Things got built just to store things for people who didn't even live in the area. At least it made jobs. 

The address was actually a set of directions, but it was good enough. Randy pulled up to an old, abandoned tin building that was exactly the way Chris had described it. The pavement was cracked all to hell, grass and even a few flowers poking up through it. Two of the three streetlights were blown out, and a pair of shoes hung from the power lines. It was all the signs of an area gone to hell. The sheriff's office had dealt with issues in the area before, but the honest truth was that no one cared what happened to abandoned buildings. As long as the building was a tax write off, nothing was going to get done. One street over, the lights were full and there were hired guards making the rounds. Where they were, Randy wouldn't have been surprised to have to roust out a squatter or two. 

In the back, he found Chris standing by his black SUV, hands stuffed in his jean pockets and a gun visible on his hip, a crossbow under his arm, murderer chic in a tight fitting t-shirt. The crossbow at his side barely registered compared to the glock. He had an actual _gunbelt_ and thigh-holster, with pouches of what Randy knew had to hold extra ammo. Probably there were some knives, Chris seemed like the sort of guy who would like knives. God knew where he was hiding them, though. Those jeans could have been spray painted on. 

It took a ridiculous amount of restraint not to immediately demand to see a permit for the gun. That wasn't the point, but years on the job had made it instinct. "What do you have?" Randy demanded as soon as he was in earshot. "You can't just call me out in the middle of the night playing Mr. Mystery and expect it to fly. That might work on terrified teenagers and runaway werewolves, but it's not going to work on me." 

Chris snorted and shook his head. He pushed off the car by rolling his shoulders, hands sliding out of his pockets to hang by his side. He held them at an odd tilt—not the way of a man used to reaching for or holding a gun, but not naturally either. It was a learned posture. "Forgive me if I'm not a fan of talking about incriminating evidence over insecure lines."

Paranoia. Randy rolled his eyes, feeling like he was talking with his son back when he was eight and had discovered the History channel. _But Dad, what if aliens snatch me in my sleep?_ "My line isn't bugged, and if it is we have bigger problems. How'd you find this place?" 

A bright, bitter smile curled Chris's lips. In the half-light provided by the single lamp, it almost made him grotesque, more of a monster than what he hunted. "I told you, Sheriff," he said, "I have my resources." 

Which was code for _if you keep pushing, I'm going to need a lawyer_. Randy hated that. _Hated_ it. If he'd been in an interrogation room, he would have pushed, would have forced the man to lawyer up and put some information on the table. But the justice system wasn't designed for werewolves or, really, those who hunted them. "Fine. Just show me what you've got."

"How strong is your stomach?" One of Chris's hands fell to the crossbow. Immediately, Randy reassessed the threat—it looked like it wasn't the gun that needed to be dealt with. And, unfortunately, crossbows weren't something that was covered in standard training. "It's pretty ugly in there." 

Tilting his head, Randy raised his eyebrows in mock consideration. "Unmedicated childbirth ugly, or watching charred corpses be pulled out of an arson ugly?"

That actually got him a little wince, but not a reply. Chris just turned away and strode toward the slightly parted warehouse doors. Wisely, he opened them using a handkerchief from his pocket, and left them open just enough for Randy to follow him in. 

Shoving his hands into his own pockets to minimize the risk of leaving a fingerprint, Randy did so. It was dark inside, not unexpectedly. Abandoned usually meant no electric. The open door let in just enough light to shine off the puddle of dry, brown-black blood. It smelled like old, rancid meat, like the time he'd taken Stiles and Ariana on vacation and had forgotten about the refrigerator. Breathing in through his mouth didn't help; he just tasted the air instead of smelling it, which was a lot worse. 

With a rustle of ammunition-loaded pouches, Chris pulled out a penlight, and flicked it on.

Randy's stomach rolled. He covered his mouth to keep from throwing up. 

_Pieces_ had been an accurate assessment. None of the chunks were bigger than a half-inflated basketball. Bits of what looked like skull had been scattered, hair still attached. Flies buzzed along the edges of the meat, which was crawling with maggots. There was no rhyme or reason to any of it. Intestines had been strung up like Christmas lights, bits of limbs and fingers tossed around like someone had just ripped them off in a fury. Some of the pieces looked fresh, blood still bright red. Others were already slimy with age.

Chris looked at it all with stone-dead eyes. "Werewolves," he said with a nonchalant shrug. "They go bad, and you get things like this. It happens to all of them eventually."

"That's the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from someone who hunts them." Stepping around one of the splashes—arterial spray it looked like, which meant at least some of the victims had been alive when they'd arrived here—he knelt down next to one of the almost-solid skulls. California heat had rotted the eyes to the point where they were just gaping holes for the maggots to live in, and the skin was bloated, probably ready to slough off. Pulling out a pen from his front pocket, he nudged the lips aside. They didn't look anything like the fangs Scott had shown him, but he remembered Laura Hale's autopsy report. There'd been irregularities that the examiner hadn't been able to explain. "Are you sure these are human?" 

There was a sound, like Chris was barely holding back a laugh. "If they were werewolves, you'd see a lot more damage to this place. They don't fight clean, Sheriff." 

"I know." Memories of the room they'd found in the alpha's base flashed through his head, with its bloodstained drains and dents in the wall. "This is a message. They didn't have to do this." Craning his neck, Randy looked up at the dangling body parts. In Chris's light they looked almost like decorations, something a cheap haunted house would use on Halloween. "You don't get this from an accident or a rampage, and they have other ways to hide the bodies. They want to tell us something." 

When he looked back at Chris, the other man was staring out the door at their cars, face set in deliberate blankness. "They're escalating. This is the beginning."

"Exactly." Randy stood, keeping his pen in hand. He'd have to trash it later, somewhere away from the warehouse. It was hell to turn his back on the bodies, but there was nothing that could be done for them yet. "We've been treating them like wild animals. But they're not—they're humans too. Serial killers."

Chris followed close on his heels, the sound of his boots changing with the divide between concrete and asphalt. "The FBI isn't exactly equipped to deal with this." 

Fresh air hit Randy's face like a blessing when he passed through the doors. "No. That's why we're going to do it."


	8. Pack Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter and a short epilogue after this! I'll post them together, so there's no wait. ♥ Thanks for sticking with me!

Scott was officially lost.

It wasn't his fault. He'd woken up when Stiles and Derek had gone off to brutally murder Thumper—or whatever it was they were doing—and had thought he'd just look around in case he could find some of the others. Or, at the very least, a place where he could call for help. The alpha pack was still out there, and it wasn't safe for anyone to be wandering around alone when they could be in a group. 

Ten hours and a dying cell phone later, he was the one who needed finding. He was pretty sure he'd circled around; some of the rocks and trees were looking familiar. Of course, he could have just been lost in the same place a few hours before.

"Hello?" Scott called again, the way he had been for the last two hours. "Is anyone there?" Overhead, branches creaked and shook. He could feel the chipmunks judging him with their beady little eyes. 

He took another step, then paused. His nose twitched, and his stomach gurgled hopefully. Something smelled _good_. Closing his eyes, Scott sniffed some more. twisting his head to find the scent again. Step by step, he followed his nose, until it bumped into something. Jerking in surprise, Scott's eyes popped open.

A faintly charred chunk of meat dangled from a length of fishing line. Blinking, he twisted his head, following it up into the tree until he found Allison's beautiful face on the other end. Not chipmunks.

"I thought that would get your attention," she laughed, leaning over the edge of her branch and grinning. Her backpack dangled from a notch on the tree next to her, its muddy brown color blending in perfectly. "Go on, eat it. I already had breakfast."

Moving carefully to make sure it didn't drop, Scott untangled the chunk of meat from the line and sank his teeth in. It was gamey and tough, kind of overcooked, but _delicious_. "Thanks. How'd you get up there?" he asked around a mouthful of he-didn't-want-to-know. "How'd you get _this_?"

"I climbed." In a flash of movement, Allison shrugged on her backpack and swung around to the other side of the tree. Still chewing, Scott followed, watching her climb down using limbs and knots in the wood. "And for that..." She landed with bent knees and swung her bag around. Now that Scott bothered to take a good look at it, he could tell that it was stuffed full, straining at the zipper with everything shoved into it. "A crossbow and a can of sterno. Some of us plan for the worst." 

Scott looked at Allison, down at the food, then back at Allison. 

As if he needed another reminder of how much he loved her.

It must have shown in his face. She went tight-lipped, rubbing her dirty jeans nervously. "Isaac's around here somewhere," she said, looking around the area they were in, up into the branches, anywhere but at him. "After the alpha pack attacked, he and I stayed together. I think I saw Erica and Boyd go in the same direction, too. You were the only one who ran off alone." 

"I wasn't alone. I was with Derek and Stiles," Scott blurted out, then grimaced. "Until I lost them again."

"Derek and Stiles?" Isaac asked from out of nowhere. 

Scott yelped and whirled around to see Isaac grinning at him from way, way too close. "Don't do that!" 

Isaac rolled his eyes. There were leaves in his hair and dirt smudges on his shirt, but other than that he didn't look like he'd spent the night outside. "Derek has Stiles?" 

"I think they have each other." Feeling incredibly self-conscious, Scott tried to casually brush some of the muck off his jeans. "Derek—he's like Stiles now. Feral. I think they're close by, though. They were somewhere..." He picked a direction that felt right and gestured at it. "That way. It was pretty dark, though." 

Allison frowned, mouth twisting to the side in that way that made Scott's heart skip. She hefted her bag over her shoulder and started walking in the way he'd pointed, practically forcing him to go with her. "If we're close to where they were, why don't you two just sniff them out?" she asked, probably reasonably. "My dad says werewolves have a sense of smell equivalent to canid-wolves."

"Uhhh..." Scott glanced over at Isaac, only to find that he was looking pointedly in the opposite direction, already starting to wander ahead. _Traitor_. "We're not really that good at it. Derek could, but he had a lifetime knowing which smells were which. We need more practice." 

"Oh." And there went the frown, and the sad eyes, and Scott kind of hated himself for wanting to lie to her and claim he could totally sniff two werewolves out of a forest. It would have just ended in sadness and disaster for both of them, the way pretty much everything did, but it would have been so good while it lasted.

"You couldn't try though?" Allison glanced up and, yep, Isaac had vanished and _why was this his life_? "Stiles is your alpha now, right? You don't know his scent at all?" 

Scott tripped over his own feet, landing with wolfly grace about an inch from a pile of what looked suspiciously like poop. Hurriedly, he scrambled up to his feet and away from the pile. Things pooped in the woods, it was part of the whole natural experience, but a close call was a close call. "He's not my alpha," he protested, brushing his knees off. 

"He's your pack," she pressed, "and an alpha now." 

"But he's not _my_ alpha." The process of avoiding the poop had ended with Scott at Allison's side. Since they were broken up, that shouldn't have made him happy, but it did. Scott tried to enjoy the little things. 

From somewhere way ahead, Isaac called, "Guys?" 

"But you're _werewolves_." Allison seemed fixated on that part. She wasn't looking at him, but her brow had that cute furrow that she'd used to get when they studied together. Back then, he'd have smoothed it out, and she'd have kissed his hand. It would have been so much easier. "And he's an alpha now. You don't think that's going to change things?"

"Why would it?" Something noisy buzzed his ear. He batted it away. "It's not like you become a different person when you get bitten. Well, okay," Scott had to amend, because even he could see the obvious hole there, "other than the whole feral thing. And Erica and Isaac both had that time when they were douchebags, but I think that was them more than the bite. _Stiles_ will be fine."

Allison's jaw tightened, and she took a sharp, hiccuping little breath. "So the bite doesn't change who you are?" He voice came out wobbly and soft, easy to miss under the crunch of leaves as they walked. "You think he'll still be Stiles?" 

" _Guys_?"

Something more was going on. Scott wished he knew what it was. "It didn't change me," he said, hoping it was the right answer. "When we were first looking for Stiles, after we found out he'd been bitten, we found him. There were alphas and— he tried to save me." He licked his lips, chest going tight as he remembered Stiles throwing himself at the enemy alpha. "Stiles is still in there. I know it." Scott lifted his head—

Just in time to get a pinecone between the eyes. 

He staggered backwards, rubbing at the spot. It was already healing, but that wasn't the point. "What was _that_ for?" 

Isaac crossed his arms and glared. He'd planted himself right in the middle of the path, where the only way to get around him would be to try and navigate some prickly vines. "I found something. Come on."

Scott and Allison shared embarrassed glances, but followed Isaac as he tromped past them, scrambling off the deer trail and between the trees. The little bit of light the filtered through above the trail vanished, leaving them in a green-gold twilight that smelled of plants and dirt and life. Hints of animal musk tickled Scott's nose, distracting him as they walked. He hadn't really noticed it before, but there were a hundred different odors there to pick apart—deer, rabbits, squirrels and...

His nose wrinkled at a hint of something different. Thicker, muskier, more familiar. It wasn't a _bad_ smell, but once he'd noticed it, it became hard to ignore. 

Allison's elbow brushed his. "Scott?" 

"I'm fine." He flashed her a reassuring smile, and tried not to feel like he was lying.

"Hey!" Isaac yelled from farther up, near a tree that had been practically stripped of bark. "Keep up or go home!" 

Scooping up a pinecone, Scott let a little bit of revenge fly. He missed, but only because Isaac ducked. "We're coming!" 

There wasn't much farther to go, though. About fifty feet more, there was a sheltered nook where the thorny plants didn't seem to grow so thickly. The leaves had been disturbed, and what little grass that had survived the canopy was flattened. The scent that Scott had noticed before was even stronger. 

Isaac circled the clearing, rubbing his hands on his thighs nervously. Gold rose and died in his eyes as his control wavered. "It smells like Derek here."

Carefully, Scott took a couple exploratory sniffs. There was definitely a Derek-like quality to the odor, and maybe some Stiles, too, but... 

When he realized what it was, Scott slapped a hand over his nose backed up out of the clearing, almost bumping into Allison. His whole face heated up. "I'm not going in there," he mumbled through his hand. 

"What is it?" Allison looked back and forth between him and Isaac. A confused frown tugged at her lips. Scott hated it—hated just about anything that made her frown—but he was _not_ going to take a sniff around. _Nope, not happening._

"You smell something?" Isaac watched him with eyes that were turning more gold by the second. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, then pulled them out again. Even his footsteps as he paced were getting shorter, sharper. "What is it?" 

"I don't know how you don't smell it!" The more Isaac fidgeted, the more Scott wanted to do the same. He stamped the urge down sharply, but it was hard with Allison watching him. "It's like... your car after we went out to the diner that one time?" 

There was a pause, then red flushed Allison's cheeks. " _Oh_. So they...?" 

"Yeah." Scott nodded behind his hands and endeavored to sink into the ground. 

A low, ugly growl from across the clearing made Scott jump. "You know, some of us weren't at the diner 'that one time'," Isaac snapped.

Allison rolled her eyes. "Sex," she said, completely matter-of-factly. "Scott says it smells like they had sex." 

If she hadn't been blushing brighter than Scott was he might have thought it was incredibly mature and sexy. Except not sexy, because he could _smell his best friend's jizz_ , and there was nothing sexy that could happen then. Ever. It wasn't as bad as being able to hear his mom late at night when she thought he was asleep— _thank you, werewolf powers,_ he almost couldn't look her in the eye for a week—because Stiles wasn't his actual blood brother. But it was close. 

"You can _smell_ that?" Isaac blinked at them, obviously not processing it all. Some of the annoyance left his face, and his shoulders relaxed. 

"Dude, you _can't_?" Slowly, Scott removed his hand, nose wrinkled up. If he tried not to think about it, it wasn't so bad, but not thinking about it was the trick. "It's not like—I mean, there's other things, they didn't hose the trees down or anything, but it's definitely there." 

Out of nowhere, Allison said, "Learning curve." Scott twisted his head to stare at her. She just shrugged, as if her meaning should have been obvious. "You've spent more time as a werewolf than he has. More experience. Probably it'll level out in a few months."

Isaac nodded, toeing at a bit of dirt that was definitely showing signs of claws. "Derek didn't teach us how to sniff things out," he added, just a little defensively. "There wasn't time. I can smell things, but I don't know what it all is." 

"Well, it's definitely Derek and Stiles." Scott toed around the dirt where the smell was the strongest. Half buried under the leaves was a shoestring and some shreds of some sort of thick fabric. Maybe denim. There was a lot of it, mixed into the leaves in tiny scraps. Some of them were _crusty_. _Ew._ "And Derek's joined the naked party. I think these were his jeans."

"That means they're still around here, right?" Allison knelt down to poke the leaves, head bowed in a way that left the back of her neck enticingly bare. She'd pulled her hair up, but somehow there were still leaves and twigs caught in it, flashes of lighter brown and soft green that made his fingers itch to pull them out. When they'd dated, he'd loved playing with her hair. It was soft and smelled nice, and he'd been able to just lean into her and comb through it with his fingers. 

Scott shoved his hands in his back pockets and tried not to look. "Yeah. That's what those Animal Planet episodes said—wild wolves have a really big territory, but they don't go far when they're..." His face twisted in discomfort. "Don't make me say it."

"Mating?" When Allison glanced up, something wicked danced in the curve of her lips. Her backpack dropped to the ground with a heavy thud and a faint rattle. "At least they don't have to worry about having puppies."

Horror dropped through Scott's stomach like a stone. He looked up to meet Isaac's equally stricken expression. "Don't joke like that."

"Who's joking? They're an alpha pair. If they were opposite sex, pregnancy would be inevitable. Ah-hah!" Grinning triumphantly, Allison came up with a scrap of what used to be a pocket. Inside was what clearly had to be Derek's wallet. "He's going to want—" Allison froze, eyes fixed just over Scott's shoulder.

It suddenly struck him that the birds and squirrels had gone silent. That, in fact, the only sound in the woods at all was their heartbeats. 

There were five of them.

Slowly, Scott turned. Derek and Stiles were at the far edge of the clearing, standing shoulder to shoulder and, yep, naked. Surprisingly clean, though, when Scott was pretty sure the last time he'd seen either of them they'd been at least a little bloody and dirt-smeared. Derek's eyes were a dark, dangerous red, but it was Stiles who bared his ridiculously sharp teeth and growled.

Instinctively, Scott moved to stand between Allison and the feral alphas, while Isaac moved to stand at his shoulder and just behind, blocking her in from two avenues of attack.

"Don't look them in the eye, it's a challenge," Scott told the others, deep in the middle of ignoring his own advice. Derek he didn't know that well, but Stiles— he knew Stiles, knew him from top to bottom, so he focused there. 

There wasn't anything of Scott's friend in the weird, graceful limp as Stiles paced the clearing, or in the way he watched them. _Dangerous_ , he looked like a threat. Even his nudity suddenly didn't seem embarrassing when there were teeth and claws to focus on instead. They shuffled back together as Stiles inched closer, nose working visibly.

"Should we run?" Isaac asked in a low, calm tone. His heartbeat gave away his fear though, pumping like a jackrabbit's. "Maybe split up?" 

As soon as he spoke, Stiles' attention turned sharp on him. He growled again, muscles and bones sliding around until he was wolfed out. Behind him, Derek just sat back and watched, amusement obvious on his face, like it was a fucking _show_ — 

" _Shit_ ," Scott breathed, a thousand little details clicking together. "Isaac, show him your belly."

"What—" Isaac whipped around, teeth bared. "I'm not—"

"Just _do it_ ," Scott snapped. "On the ground, face up—"

Whatever was driving Stiles snapped. He snarled and lunged, plowing into Isaac's stomach. Leaves flew as they rolled. Allison shrieked and dove to the side, dragging Scott with her out of the way. 

Stiles came out on top. His teeth pressed into Isaac's throat, claws shredding his shirt over his stomach but not— _thank God, oh thank God_ —not breaking skin. Isaac's face had gone beta, eyes rolling gold and skin reeking of sudden terror. 

"Relax!" Scott yelled, keeping an arm around Allison in case Stiles turned his attention on them. He didn't think he would—if he was right, he and Allison should be mostly fine. Just as long as Derek didn't decide to play. "He's not going to hurt you, just let him do it."

Isaac closed his eyes and let his head fall back into the leaves. Every breath came out in a whimper so low Scott wasn't sure Allison could hear it. Even if she couldn't Stiles definitely could. His shoulders relaxed, and his claws didn't look like they were quite so close to ripping Isaac's intestines out. 

The two of them stayed locked like that for a minute before Stiles finally let go, stepping off to the side and looking away like Isaac wasn't worth his time anymore. Unfortunately, what that meant was that he was looking at Scott and Allison. They stayed still as he sniffed Scott's hand, then up his shoulder, rising up on two legs to do it. 

When Stiles moved to sniff Allison, Derek was suddenly _there_ , shoving between them with skin that was a lot more naked than it had any right to be. He growled at Allison while bodily forcing Stiles away. Stiles snapped and twisted around him, clearly not happy with being bullied. Some sort of argument was happening, taking place in bumped shoulders and bared teeth and _what was Scott's life_ that he almost hoped Derek would win.

"What the hell's going on?" In what might have been his smartest move since accepting the bite, Isaac had decided to stay where Stiles had put him. "McCall?"

Behind him, Allison's fingers wrapped in his. She smelled like fear, too, but less than Isaac. Scott wasn't sure if that meant she was more brave, or if she thought Scott could protect her. He squeezed her hand. "I think you're part of Stiles' pack now, since he and Derek— you know. That was you getting put in place."

"I didn't sign up to kowtow to Stilinski!" Isaac snapped, tensing as Derek stepped close to his hip. "No way."

If Scott hadn't been focused on the way Derek and Stiles were still half-wrestling half-circling each other, he might have snapped back. "You can always take it up with them," he said instead, getting a whole lot of satisfaction out of the way Isaac's expression went from angry to petulant resignation.

"Then what's _this_ about?" Allison's voice was just a whisper, but both Stiles and Derek glanced at her before going back to whatever they were doing; apparently they hadn't gotten so wrapped up in things that they'd forgotten the point. Then Stiles took a step toward her, and Derek went back to trying to herd him away. 

"No idea," Scott admitted. " _This_ isn't normal for wolf wolves. Maybe it's a werewolf thing."

He heard her lick her lips, felt her breathe out unsteadily on the back of his neck. Then her hand loosened in his. "Let me try something."

"What— no!" Scott tried to grab her arm, but she'd already stepped away and was walking forward. Scott felt his claws come out and his face shift as he crouched down, ready to spring if either of them so much as bared a tooth. "Allison...." 

The two alphas paused in mid-tussle, watching with red eyes. Step by slow step, Allison got close enough that either one of them could have her throat out in one move, eyes turned pointedly away. Slowly, she lowered herself down to sit in the dirt, still not looking at either of them. 

Scott thought his heart might give out at any second. He was going to die of a werewolf-induced heart attack at sixteen, while his ex-girlfriend died of having her stomach ripped out only a few feet away and only Isaac would live to tell the tale of how dumb they both were. 

Derek snorted, looking between Allison and Stiles. He bumped Stiles' shoulder again, twisting so their noses touched. Then Derek moved toward Allison, back tense and legs stiff. She didn't move as he sniffed her hair and down her neck, then her _chest_ and Scott had to bite his tongue to keep from saying anything. 

Allison lifted her chin to let Derek smell her throat and let out an actual _whine_. It was too high and too loud, but it got Stiles in on the sniffing action. First he worked at her neck, then down to her chest like Derek had, because boobs were apparently a thing even for werewolves. He stuffed his nose in her armpit, then followed her ribs down to her hips. His whole _face_ went in her stomach, practically in her crotch. 

Then he collapsed. Just fell on top of her like a pile of no-laundry pinning her legs to the ground. Allison grunted and flailed, and was immediately trapped by _Derek_ flopping atop her chest. Little scratches appeared on her jeans as Stiles pawed at them idly with his claws and Scott had a growing and terrible suspicion as to what happened to Derek's clothes. Scott could just barely make out Allison's chin and nose where Derek's over-sized bicep had shoved them up. 

"I think it worked," she said, voice thick and breathless. Her hands and feet wiggled uselessly, moving leaves around like a pitiful attempt at a snow angel. "Um. They're really heavy. Help?"

Isaac laughed. And laughed. And _laughed_.

* * *

Nothing about anything was looking like Boyd's day. 

He and Erica had spent the night curled up together under an overhang, and had gotten a slow start on the morning. Breakfast had been some early berries and last year's nuts, which wasn't exactly filling for a pair of growing werewolves. Then they'd figured out a direction by the sun and had started walking until they found a landmark, and from there had managed to work their way back to the road. It was at least familiar, even if it _was_ a long walk to civilization. They could run faster, but it had been a long night, and it would only tire them out. 

Cars flashed by, none of them bothering to stop. Most of them smelled like university kids out enjoying the early summer weather, before it got too hot to drink outdoors, so Boyd wasn't exactly mourning the loss of a chance to play sober passenger to a drunk driver. Still, the noise hurt his ears every time they passed, and made the woods that much more inviting. Even if the woods _did_ have a feral alpha and a pack of killers who'd already spent a lot of time playing with him. At least the feral was _his_ alpha. 

He'd figure out how he felt about that later, once Stiles was back to using words. Not thinking about things was something he was starting to get some skill at.

Erica froze, slapping out an arm to keep him from walking past as she tilted her head up to sniff the breeze. "I think I smell something." She sounded tired, dragging. About the same way he felt, really. "Scott? Maybe. We could go find him, track down the others."

Just then, Boyd really couldn't have cared less about Scott, but he nodded anyway. "We're safer together."

Maybe if the three of them worked with each other, they could find Isaac and Allison. Or Peter, though that was a different thing entirely. Clearly, Derek had made a huge mistake letting him stay alive, and Boyd was itching to fix that. 

They started walking again, still moving slow to keep track of the scent. Erica hadn't been much of a talker since they'd woken up, though, so at least it was quiet other than the occasional car. Quiet was something Boyd knew how to deal with. With the sunlight and the occasional animal sounds in the woods, it was peaceful. At least, when there wasn't a bunch of alcohol-soaked idiots driving by in a truck that was almost as big as their idiocy. 

Erica snorted, turning her head to watch the tailgate of the truck vanish around the curve up ahead. The silence they left behind was heavier, thicker. "Think Mr. Stilinski will pick them up?"

Teeth clenched, Boyd shook his head. "Maybe. Hopefully before they get someone killed." Those types never ended up dead themselves. It was always someone else, someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Something angry passed through Erica's expression. She didn't say anything, but her shoulders hunched in.

Leaning over, Boyd bumped their elbows together, feeling like he got it for one of the few times since the whole werewolf business had started. Things were bad. They were together, and that made it better. Sometimes, it really could be simple. Occasionally, the werewolf thing worried him, the way instinct just took over. This wasn't one of those times. "Sheriff'll get them," he said, even though it was mostly guesswork and hope. 

Erica made a thoughtful face, biting her lip with teeth that were a bit too sharp. "He's not like my parents. He cares. I like him. I think."

"... Yeah, me too." Which was kind of weird all by itself. Boyd didn't usually get along with adults. He didn't _not_ get along with them either, but they just caused problems. In his opinion, adults were better off outside of his life. The Sheriff didn't quite fall into that, and he didn't know how to deal. "He raised Stiles. He'll get over it."

That got him a laugh, one of those short bursts that Erica let out when something wasn't as funny as it tried to be. Her eyes flashed in a beam of sunlight, though, and her smile was honest. Boyd would pretty much do anything to see Erica smile after the time they'd been having.

It took him a second to realize the birds had gone quiet. Something moved in the trees, a rustle of leaves that didn't match the wind.

Erica picked it up before he did, stumbling to a stop, hand suddenly tight around his. Her heartbeat picked up speed. "Boyd..." 

"Well, well, well, if it isn't our two strays," a familiar, cruel female voice said above them.

They both leaped back as Kali dropped down from the branch she'd been sitting on, landing on two feet like it hadn't been a twenty-foot drop. Blood smeared across her cheeks, painted her claws and t-shirt red. When she smiled, there was more of it in her teeth. "Isn't _this_ a pleasant surprise?"

* * *

"I can't feel my legs," the little human moaned, squirming under Derek's chest. 

Derek was really starting to rethink putting their packs together. That was the way it was supposed to be, but still. They'd done nothing since being settled but whine and moan and make noise at each other. His mate seemed to enjoy it, looking back and forth, following their noises with interest, but he just wanted them to all shut up.

His mate paced along the edge of the clearing, sniffing out trails. Derek watched him. He should probably do that, too, but the human was comfortable, and needed scent marking. She smelled like bane and blood and sharp things that made his hackles stand on end. That just wouldn't do. Other packs would think she was a danger, wouldn't realize she'd been claimed. She hadn't even smelled like his _mate_ , just a little bit like his mate's pack. It was wrong, all wrong.

 _Idiots_. Puppies and _idiots_. Why his mate was even attached to this pack, he didn't know. They'd have been better off going on their own to find the rest of Derek's pack, or making a fresh pack all their own. 

"Just slide back a little more, Allison, you've almost got it." The beta with the odd-shaped jaw—Scott, he thought, that seemed right, a sharp name-sound for a soft cub—leaned into Derek's side, pushing hard. Derek grunted and rolled away a little with only a bit of a lip curl to show his displeasure, refusing to lean against anyone else. It meant that his weight shifted down to the human's stomach, making her breath whoosh out in a pained pant. 

The tall beta with the curly hair, _his_ beta, a new wolf whose name just wouldn't come no matter how he tried to remember it, stopped playing tug with the human and just fell into the leaves. "Maybe if we distract them, he'll get off her?"

"Last time we tried that, Stiles tried to bite Scott." The human's hand touched Derek's shoulder. He blinked up at her, rumbling until she rubbed her hand against him a little, smoothing the fur he didn't have in this shape. _She_ seemed to get it. "I think they don't want us to leave." 

"I don't care what they want, we need to go!" The first one's voice rose and got hard, upset. He shoved Derek's rib hard, bruising and not at all playful. "Derek, move!"

Derek huffed at the whining and put his head on his forearms tiredly. _Puppies_.

Over at the edge of their clearing, his mate whined. His nose had turned to the wind, and obviously something had caught his attention. For a second, Derek gave very serious consideration to just ignoring it, but the whine lowered, turned into a growl, and that was something he wasn't going to ignore. With a grunt, he lifted himself off the human and paced over toward his mate, who bumped him in the direction of the scent. 

His nose worked the air while the puppies made their noises behind him. 

"What do you think they're doing?"

"How should _I_ know?"

The scent was... He knew the scent. It was a bad scent, a wolf who wasn't pack, who was dangerous. But he couldn't quite work out who it belonged to; his mate must have known it better than he did. Female, with touches of blood and others' fear. _Enemy_ , definitely.

"Stiles _is_ your best friend." 

"And Derek's _your_ alpha, shouldn't you be able to understand his wolf-language or something?" 

"Will you two stop it?" the human snapped at them, teeth clicking and voice almost a growl. "Let's just get out of here while they're distracted. We'll come back with a van or something."

Derek tried to ignore their sounds, but his mate swiveled around, growling louder. " _No_."

Immediately, the sounds stopped. Derek turned his head to blink at his mate, surprised that he'd started making the noises too. That could get annoying. Bad enough with the puppies doing it. He whined and bumped his mate's shoulder, getting a chin resting on the back of his neck for his trouble. 

"Dude..." Scott's voice was soft and strange, eager. "Stiles? Are you in there?" 

His mate—Stiles? Was that a name? It didn't seem like a name—whined. " _No_." 

"Ah, look, he learned his first word," the curly-haired one shook his head. "Maybe he'll learn about pants next. Come on, let's—" 

In the distance, a howl sounded. Derek's attention immediately snapped away from the puppies, head turning toward the sound. His mate's head lifted, eyes growing bright red. Derek knew _that_ howl, but it wasn't for him. Not anymore. It was for his mate, who whined and snapped at him. 

_New pack. Call for help._ They needed to go, but clearly they couldn't leave the puppies. The idiots would wander off and get eaten by a mountain lion. 

His mate—Stiles—whined again, then settled down in the leaves to stay. 

Derek bumped his shoulder, licking his cheek uncertainly, but Stiles didn't move. Decision made, he circled the clearing, pushing the pups closer to Stiles where they'd be safe. Then he took off at a lope, following the howl. It let him to the road, where the cars were loud and the humans in them shouted as he ran past. No one attacked, so he just ran past them, rounding the bend at a dead run. 

The two new pack mates—more puppies, of _course_ —were facing off against a female alpha. They reeked of fear and blood, and the dark one had his hand pressed to his chest. The light-colored female's arm hung limp by her side, and blood dripped from her claws. Claw marks slashed across her back, dripping more blood down her spine. A little deeper and she would have been dead. 

_No._

Putting on a burst of speed, Derek leaped in the middle, teeth bared. He snarled at the female alpha, snapping. 

She stepped back, red eyes going wide in surprise. " _You_? I expected the other one." Her knees bent, lowering herself to the ground, ready to spring into action. "What, you've taken them back into your pack again? After they ran like scared little rabbits? Pathetic, Derek. Very pathetic."

Derek backed himself up against the pups, herding them away from the threat. She followed, keeping close. His growl rose in volume. More cars drove by, more humans shouting. They barely registered. Derek's eyes stayed locked on the alpha in front of him, the one who'd hurt his pack.

When she leaped, he jumped to meet her, not letting her get past him to the puppies. His claws raked across her stomach, teeth sinking into her shoulder. She brought up her hind claws to rake at his hips and down his thighs. They sprang apart, only to dive at each other again. 

The pups snarled and threw themselves into the fight, slashed at the alpha's vulnerable back while Derek had her distracted. When she twisted to catch the male by his throat, Derek took his turn at her back, teeth catching her neck and barely missing crunching down on her spine. Branches smashed to pieces as she tossed the male into the trees, but the female was right there to take his place, slashing at the alpha's sides.

She rolled, knocking Derek off when he slammed into the ground, then catching him across the face with her claws. Blood dripped down into his eyes, blinding him for a moment. The alpha used the chance to land more blows, cracking his ribs and collarbone. 

Roaring, Derek threw himself forward. His shoulder blazed with pain and it slammed into something that smelled like the alpha female. He sank his teeth into the part that was closest, ripping out a chunk of meat. Her howl of pain was high and sweet as she ripped away, her blood heavy on his tongue. He threw himself at her again, snapping, but she just threw herself back. 

What he couldn't get, the pups could, and did. They attacked viciously, going for her vulnerable spots mercilessly. This time when she broke free, it was to turn tail and run.

Derek sprawled by the road, panting. His bones hurt where they'd been snapped, and the other alpha's bites were healing slowly. One of the betas made to give chase, but he pulled them up short with a sharp whine. The intruder had been run off. If they chased, she might win next time.

"Nice job, Derek." The female pup sank down next to him, arm hooking around his shoulders. Blood streaked through her hair, and her claw wounds hadn't begun to heal yet. The cloth of her top was practically shredded, leaving most of her bare. "I know this is a great look on you, but we've probably got about two minutes before cops show up looking for the naked fight on the 65. We've got to move." 

"I don't think he understands you." The male grabbed his arm, tugging. Derek whined and sank away, letting his weight hold him in place. He was _tired_ and _hurt_. He didn't want to move it. "Scott said he'd been able to lead them."

" _Them_. Scott said Derek followed Stiles, and Stiles followed him." The pulling stopped as the betas seemed to realize he wasn't going anywhere. The female's long nails scratched across the back up his neck, up in his hair. She didn't smell right, still smelled more like not-pack than pack, but he hurt too much to fix it yet. "Where's Stiles?"

 _Stiles._ Derek lifted his eyes, looking at them.

"Oh God—does he know that name?" The male pup crouched down, not quite looking him in the eye. That was good, right. Not a challenge. He didn't want to fight _another_ new pack mate, not when he hurt. 

"Derek." The sound of his name drew his attention back to the male. B—bo— His name was right on the edge of Derek's mind, a bubbling sound, popping in his memory. It was so close... "Derek, we need to find Stiles. Where is he? Where's _Stiles_?"

His mate. _Stiles_. Their pack and the puppies, all vulnerable with an angry alpha on the loose. Derek whined and forced himself to his feet, wobbling on two of them. Four legs would have been steadier, but his shoulder wouldn't take it, he knew. His bones hadn't knit yet, still had that funny tenderness that came from a slow healing.

"This is worse than an episode of Lassie." The female kicked leaves, but both the pups followed him into the safety of the woods. "What's the matter, Derek, did little Stiles fall down the well again? Where is he, boy?"

"You better pray he doesn't remember any of this when he gets better." 

Derek ignored their noises and focused on following his own trail back to the clearing. In the distance, loud, wailing noises had started, and were getting closer. He couldn't remember what the sounds meant, but he remembered running from them once, which was enough. It had been bad then, and it would be bad now.

What had been a short run took much longer when Derek had to worry about leading the pups. They kept getting distracted, wandering away until he nipped at their sides and forced them back in the right direction. They were worse than the other three, who at least mostly stayed where he put them. 

The sun was almost behind the hills when he finally heard his pack in the distance, the sound of his mate snarling and the betas whining at one another. Dark shadows stretched around them with the sunset, what little light there was broken up by the thick trees. 

He leaped forward, leaving the betas behind. There was no scent of the enemy, but Derek circled the temporary den anyway, making extra certain. Then he rushed forward into the clearing, barreling into Stiles. They circled, leaning into each others sides. Stiles sniffed at his shoulder, which had finally healed, then mouthed at his ear. Together, they settled down, Derek sprawling over Stiles' shoulders comfortably with their legs tangled together. 

"Great, Derek's back, can we _go now_?" The curly-haired one growled, claws raking through the dirt. All three of the betas were slouched together in the middle of the clearing, smelling like annoyance and fear. Dirt had been kicked up, meaning there'd probably been a fight or two. "Mr. Stilinski's going to kill us."

" _Isaac_?" The new male came into view. He stopped at the edge of the clearing while the female caught up. 

"What are you guys doing here?"

"Oh, you know." Leaves flew as the curly-haired one—Isaac? Was that it?—tossed a handful in the air. "Just hanging around. Waiting for you guys to show up."

"Is that what I think it is?" The male's nose wrinkled as they circled around the clearing, but moved into the pile with the rest of the pack. He sneezed, rubbing his nose. "It smells like sex."

Scott made the puppy-barking noise. _Laughter_ , Derek thought. The noise was laughter. "Tell us about it." 

"They won't let us leave. You might as well get over here." The human female stretched out next to Scott, who looked visibly pleased at the attention. Derek curled lip and whined at what _that_ meant. _More puppies_.

Under him, Stiles huffed in amusement and bumped him with a knee. Grumbling, Derek pressed into him and closed his eyes. 

At least he had a pack again.

* * *

Scott eased closer to the edge of the clearing, moving six dramatically casual inches at a time. He kept his shoulders rounded and his eyes down, didn't move in a direct line and _never_ directly toward the alpha pair that were watching him from twenty feet away. A thousand hours of _Animal Planet_ ran through his memory: advice about canine body language, things about wolf packs and territory and breeding season.

In spite of the humid misery that was summer just after sunset, they were still curled up together. Stiles' arms and legs tangled around Derek like he was an over-sized body pillow, and Derek seemed deeply invested in making certain Stiles had to move at least 150 of his 200 pounds of solid muscle if he needed to get up for some reason. 

None of their incredibly awkward naked cuddle time deterred either of them from moving like lightning when they needed to. 

Stiles was watching him with more interest than Derek. Which wasn't to say that Derek was ignoring him, but Stiles' head was up and his eyes focused. By comparison, Derek's one-eyed grumpiness in Scott's general direction wasn't even worth mentioning. Isaac and Boyd were running a sort of interference. That mostly meant making out noises and kicking up dirt every now and then to keep Stiles' and Derek's attention away from Scott. So far it hadn't helped much, other than to give them a hilarious photo of Derek with his face half-buried in leaves.

Another six inches. Leaves rustled under his feet no matter how he tried to keep quiet. Sweat trickled down his back, made his shirt stick to him in uncomfortable places. He wanted to take it off, but he'd learned his lesson when Erica had taken off the tattered remains of _her_ shirt to try and replace it with Isaac's slightly-less-ruined one. Stiles had pounced, and it hadn't lasted three seconds under his claws. 

_Clothes bad_ apparently wasn't limited to alphas. Erica had given up when the replacement shirt from Allison's bag was also seized in the name of apple pie, freedom and Stiles' bizarre new devotion to No Pants Monday. Scott had been surprised that her bra was mostly tan, and very utilitarian. He'd expected her to be more of the lace and silk type. 

Which showed exactly how much he didn't know about girls. Sadly, that wasn't really news to him. 

"You almost have it, Scott," Allison said, her voice weirdly directed-and-not at him as she tried to keep it calm and collected. "A little farther."

Like his eyes were drawn by a magnet, Scott's head whipped around to look at her. A fraction of a second later, leaves flew as something barreled into his legs with an angry snarl. He went down in a heap, curling into a ball to protect his throat and stomach. Pale flesh flashed at the corner of his vision as the back of his neck was grabbed and he was sent rolling back into the center of the clearing. 

Stiles bared his fangs, snapping at Scott's legs and arms, forcing Scott to keep scrambling backward until Stiles was finally satisfied that Scott was back in his place. Then he started pacing, prowling around on all fours, growling and grumbling. Derek watched him without moving from his sprawl. Apparently Stiles got to be the heavy of the two of them.

When Stiles passed Allison and Erica, he bumped them with his shoulder and side, nudging them back in closer. Whether it was because they didn't fight back or because Allison was human, it was hard to tell, but he was definitely more gentle with them than with Scott. 

Then again, it wasn't hard to be more gentle than almost making someone dinner.

"That was a waste of time," Isaac griped, dropping down next to Scott. Stray dirt and forest litter was stuck to his chest and back. He brushed at it, fidgeting uncomfortably.

Groaning, Scott flopped back in the dirt. "Tell me about it." The stars were just starting to come out, appearing one by one overhead. It might have been a pretty view, if he hadn't been _trapped in the woods_. Camping was great. Staying out late to hang with Stiles was great. Being kept trapped by a pair of feral werewolves? Not so much. 

Boyd took a spot across from Scott, far enough away that he'd have had to stretch his legs for them to touch. "We have to do something," he said, turning his head to keep an eye on Stiles as he paced unhappily. "We can't just turn a pack of Mowglis."

"I'm not very into the outdoorsy thing," Erica added. She and Allison finished the circle, facing across from each other with their bags in the center. "He wasn't like this at the Sheriff's house." 

"Of course he wasn't," a smooth, annoyingly familiar voice said in the dark. "He was safe there. Out here, it's a much different prospect."

As one, they rose to their feet, claws coming out. 

Peter melted out of the shadows. He was a mess, especially compared to his usually sleek look. His jeans were stained and ripped, and splatters of something dark had been dripped down the front of his shirt. The wind was wrong for Scott to smell him, but he thought he'd probably smell blood and fire if he tried. 

Stiles growled, moving to put himself between them and Peter. Behind them, Derek whined, rising up on two legs and looking back and forth. One step at a time, he backed up, visibly undecided but following Stiles' lead. 

A small, unreadable smile curved Peter's lips. His head stayed tilted, deliberately not watching Derek or Stiles head-on. "Yes, you would, wouldn't you?" he said, as if that made any sense. 

Scott shuffled Boyd and Erica behind him, where they could guard Allison better. "What do _you_ want?" he growled, over-sized teeth making it difficult to do anything else. "Are the alphas already tired of you? You think we're going to trust you again?"

"Of course not." Taking one slow step, Peter edged into the clearing. His trajectory curved him around the outer edge. Fingers bouncing off tree trunks as he went. Stiles shuffled to stay between him and the pack, never quieting his growl. "I don't need you to, either. You may not believe this, but I'm on your side."

"Like you were on the alpha's side last night?" 

"It's called being a turncoat, and I happen to be good at it." Peter paused by one tree, rapping his knuckles on it, head tipped as if the sound had meaning only he could understand. "Things are moving quickly now that Argent is fully engaged. It won't be long now." 

"What are you planning?" Boyd hadn't changed fully, but his claws and teeth were out.

"It's not what I'm planning." With a tilt of his head, Peter indicated Allison. "Too many players on this chess board. We're all just along for the ride, so to speak. Especially our alphas, here." He smiled into the dark. "Isn't that right, Derek?" 

Leaves shuffled in the dark as Derek took a slow, hesitant step toward his uncle. The pitch of Stiles' growl changed, turning higher, worried. It made the hair on the back of Scott's neck stand up. Something was desperately wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it, couldn't do anything to _stop_ it. It was pack and family and _dangersickwrong_ —

Erica slammed her elbow into Scott's ribs. He yelped, twisting away, but she caught his wrist before he could swipe at her. "You're whining like a puppy," she hissed, fangs bared. "Stop it."

"It's Stiles," Scott tried to explain. "I can't— It's _weird_. How is he doing that?"

Her hand squeezed, fingers biting into the tendons before letting go suddenly. "I don't know, but you can ride it out like the rest of us."

Derek got close enough that one leap could have ended it. Peter held out a hand, palm up. Keeping most of his body leaned away, Derek stretched out to sniff it suspiciously. 

Scott held his breath. There was no telling what Derek would do. Stiles—he knew Stiles, down to the bone and blood. They were closer than brothers. Derek might as well have been a complete stranger for all the sense he made sometimes. And Peter was just flat out crazy. Sane enough to know that no one was going to trust him, but that just meant that he'd work that into whatever he was doing.

But Derek didn't bite, or growl. He just sniffed Peter up to the elbow, then backed away again. Stiles came up to press against his side, his growl a low, constant noise. After a second, Derek bared his teeth. It wasn't a growl, but even to Scott the meaning was unmistakable. 

_Unwelcome._

Something flickered over Peter's face. If Scott hadn't known better, he might have thought it was hurt. "I see. Not unexpected, but..." Peter shook his head. For a moment, he looked older than Scott had ever seen him. "You should stay here. Make a plan, stay safe. I'll see you in the morning." The corner of his mouth quirked in a half smile. "Or not."

Without another word, he turned and vanished into the woods.

Allison touched Scott's elbow from behind. "What do you think—"

Isaac shushed her with a glare. "He can still hear us." 

"He knows we don't trust him. There's nothing left to hide." Scott shook his head. It was strangely sad, watching Peter walk off. He rubbed his chest uncomfortably; it felt like something was broken. "We need to come up with a plan."

"What sort of plan?" Isaac, showing all the trust he'd gained from working in a pack, settled down in the leaves again, visibly making himself comfortable. "We're not exactly allowed to leave." 

"We can't stay here." Rolling his eyes, Scott turned his attention back to the alphas. Derek had hunched in on himself, and Stiles was trying to distract him with bumps of the head and licks. The actions might have been different, but Scott knew Stiles' worried-face, and that was it. No matter how Scott twisted tried to think it through, it was pretty obvious they were determined to stay together. 

That tickled the back of his thoughts. "I think I have an idea."

* * *

The woods around the alpha pack's hideout were just as hard to find as Randy remembered. The sun had set hours ago, but he didn't dare bring out a flashlight. The shadows of the trees arched overhead, blocking out most of the starlight. They'd been in the dark long enough that his eyes had acclimated, but damned if he didn't miss having a werewolf or two on his side. The heavy bag of mountain ash weighed him down as he circled the hideout, letting a little of it trickle out. Chris paced beside him silently, making a double circle. They worked in silence, using touches to stay together when they had to go around a tree or some other obstacle. 

His eyes itched with exhaustion—almost two weeks of running on coffee and terror were taking their toll. He'd caught a nap in the back of his car somewhere around lunchtime, but it was just enough to take the grit out. As soon as he had his son safe and sound, he was going to take a week off to just _sleep_.

"You're overthinking this," Chris said quietly as they edged around a particularly large rock. His—possibly legal, probably not—semi-automatic rifle was slung over his shoulder, out of the way. "It's the right thing to do." 

Randy bounced his quickly emptying sack higher on his back and took a deep, measured inhale of fresh air. His shoulder ached, a harsh reminder that he was getting too old for tromping around in the woods. 

Then again, Chris didn't seem to mind. Maybe he was just out of shape. Stiles would have made pointed comments about arterial clogging and exercise. "Being right doesn't make it not murder."

It had occurred to Randy back in the warehouse with its rot and fresh blood that they'd made one major mistake. They'd been so focused on tracking down Stiles that they hadn't paid attention to the real problem. As much as it killed him to admit, Stiles would be fine left on his own for a few days. The alphas, on the other hand, couldn't be allowed to continue on. As long as they were loose, they were a danger to everyone— _especially_ to his son. There were a lot of things he'd do for the sake of the law, but Randy knew his priorities. Anything that threatened Stiles _would_ be dealt with.

Even if it had to be done in cold blood.

The start of the lines of ash was just ahead, marked by an odd-shaped branch so they didn't have to fumble in the dark too much. 

It was broken off. 

They stopped together, staring at the spot. Randy looked back and forth between it and Chris, but it was too dark to make out anything useful in the hunter's expression. "You think it's a trap?"

"I think we'd better assume it is," Chris answered shortly. Slowly, he knelt down, putting his own bag of ash on the ground to trade out for his rifle. "Finish your line, and I'll cover you. Then we'll finish mine. All we need is one."  
Nodding, Randy took another step, careful to keep the line as solid as he could in the rough terrain. Another step, then another, nothing happened. 

On the fourth step, something cracked. Ropes that had been hidden by the dark and deadfall snapped tight. Randy shouted, throwing himself to the side, but the net caught his ankle and sent him face-down into the dirt. A second trap sprang, forcing him to shuffle aside and roll. He came up with the Beretta out and the safety off. 

"God damn it!" Chris had one of his legs tangled in the first net. It hadn't been strong enough to actually lift him off the ground, but his back and shoulders were most of his support. His rifle had fallen out of reach. "Keep an eye out, they won't be far—"

"Of course we won't," a smooth male voice said from the shadows. A pair of red eyes glowed bright. "We're right here."

Randy took aim and fired. The eyes blinked out for a second. Too fast to follow, something slammed into his chest. He flew back, rolling head over ass, then spinning to a graceless stop. The gun skittered off to be lost in the leaves. His ears rang and his chest ached like all the air had been crushed out of his lungs. Fumbling, he reached for the knife at his hip, only to have it kicked out of his hand. A follow-up blow sent him rolling again, hot lines of pain scoring across his cheek. 

Head ringing, Randy tried to sit up, but was almost immediately shoved back down. 

"Don't do that, Sheriff." Kali dragged her claws up his chest with a soft _rip_ of parting cloth. The points dug gently into the base of his throat, flexing. In the blurry darkness, she was mostly a shape kneeling above him, marked out by her eyes. "This doesn't have to be ugly. We need you alive. Argent, on the other hand..."

"Don't let them—" A shot fired. In the hollow silence behind it, he heard a hard exhale and the sound of someone being slamming into the ground. Chris coughed, wheezing for air.

He sank back into the ground, fear a hard fist around his stomach. _Trapped_. "Don't hurt him." Pinned and aching as he was, Randy didn't even try to keep his voice steady. 

Kali patted his cheek right over the cuts, making it sting. "Wise decision, Sheriff."


	9. Through the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear by all I hold dear that this was written before S3 began, and long before the finale. (crosses heart)

Walking backwards in the woods while wearing high heels: less fun than it sounded.

"Come on, Stiles, don't be a downer. Keep moving, that's right." Erica snapped her fingers to grab his attention. Every few steps she wobbled over a root or a loose piece of ground. It would have been easier if she'd just lost the shoes, but she refused. She'd only gotten back into heels, and it was going to take threat of imminent death to get her out of them again. "Can't we just make a leash for him?" 

"I don't think that would work. He never liked it when he were kids," Scott said, inexplicably unembarrassed by the implications. He and Allison pressed against Stiles' back and legs, working as herd wolves to keep him shuffling forward. Boyd and Isaac did the same for Derek, who seemed more bemused by the situation than anything else.

Scott's idea hadn't exactly been genius, but it worked. Stiles seemed mostly concerned with keeping them all together; as long as they moved as a group, there wasn't much he could or would do but follow. And where Stiles went, Derek did too, looking kind of like one of the cool kids at school when they wanted to pretend they were anywhere else. 

Progress came at a price, though. The pace was painfully, obnoxiously slow. More than once, Stiles had gotten free and tried to shuffle them back the way they'd come. They'd figured out that as long as they stayed together and didn't budge, he always came back, circling and whining. Erica didn't really care if he was unhappy, as long as she could get back to places where she could wear a shirt again. 

"Do we even have any idea where we're going?" Allison asked. She had one hand on Stiles' shoulder, patting him now and then when he started to slow down. 

"Anywhere that's not here," Isaac muttered, giving Derek a nudge and dodging his half-hearted snap. 

"Anywhere with cell service," Boyd corrected quietly. "I still have battery. And then somewhere near a road. Maybe with all of us, we can keep them from running off this time." 

Erica winced. "Do you think we'll get time off for having caught the alphas? Mr. Stilinski can't be _that_ mad, right?" she asked hopefully, clapping her hands when Stiles' attention started to drift. He whined, head craning around to look behind. It was worse than herding cats. At least cats didn't shred her clothing. 

"We snuck out without asking permission and went into alpha werewolf infested woods to find two ferals." Allison's eyebrows arched pointedly as she hefted her bag higher up her shoulder. "We'll be lucky if they don't tie us up and lock us in the house."

"I can take a little bondage if it's coming from your dad," Erica grinned, just to see her get riled up. "Talk about winning the— Hey, no, Stiles!" She threw up her hands, waving them to get him to look at her. "Hey! Up front!"

For what Erica estimated to be the millionth and first time, Stiles split off from Allison and Scott to sniff at the base of a tree. Predictably, Derek went to sniff with him, and that was pretty much that for progress. It would be at least a good ten minutes before they got back into the mood to walk. 

She took the chance to lean against Boyd and massage her ankles, rotating them around to get rid of some of the stiffness. They didn't actually hurt—one of the major benefits of being a werewolf, in her opinion. Just about any strain healed before it could actually be a pain. The worst that happened was a little bit of weird pressure that sometimes needed to be popped. 

"Anyone know how far we've gotten?" Scott asked plaintively, tilting his head back like he could navigate by the stars. "I don't think I've ever been in this part of the preserve before."

Allison bumped him with her shoulder. "If we just keep heading this way, we'll run into a road somewhere."

"How much time are we going to spend wandering around in the woods, though?" Isaac's voice hit an annoying, whining pitch that made Erica's lips want to curl back to bare her teeth. " _Derek_ would have been able to find his way back."

"He probably still can." With one last wiggle of her toes, Erica put her foot back on the ground and stood up. "You know, if he weren't out of his mind and currently sniffing Stiles' ass," she added brightly.

With perfect timing, they all groaned. "I was trying to ignore that," Scott muttered, hiding his face in Allison's shoulder. She patted his head, murmuring about _poor baby_.

Claws scraped against wood, and suddenly Stiles was back in the middle of them. "No," he said clearly, eyes flashing red. He shoved his head into Allison's hip, forcing her forward. " _No_."

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Great, he's back, let's—What the— _Hey_!" 

Derek got in on the action too, shoving Isaac's back, then Boyd's and Erica's. His low, deep growl rumbled at them as he and Stiles pushed and shoved them backwards. Stiles' constant repetitions of _no_ carried in place of growl, the pitch sometimes reaching a gravely roll before it came back to an understandable word.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Erica demanded when Stiles snapped at her ass and Derek shoved her shoulders. Her claws itched at the tips of her fingers, fighting to come out. The urge to just _go_ , to grab the others and take to her heels scratched at her. A slow crawl of _dangerrunbad_ pounded in the back of her head. 

It tasted like blood. 

Scott's eyes started turning an alarmed shade of gold. "I think something's wrong. I don't—"

The alphas took off at a dead run. 

A bare second later, Erica took off after them. It was like her legs took control of the rest of her, and she just had to keep up. She heard the rest of the pack on her heels, even Allison, fighting through the underbrush. Erica's shoes were off in the third stride, her clawed toes digging into the dirt to give her traction. 

Up ahead, Derek's bare ass flashed white in the darkness. She didn't even think twice before following him, leaping over rocks and up steep embankments. The pack ran beside and behind her, Stiles dropping back to nip at Allison's heels as they brought up the rear. 

Allison was the first to lose pace, cursing when they jumped a slick section of ground and she slipped in a mud puddle. Without a pause for thought, Erica slowed enough to fall back. She wrapped an arm around Allison's waist. It took practically carrying her over the rougher ground, but they were able to keep up with the rest of the pack. Her heart was in her throat, vision burning red as the werewolf took over.

The familiar scent of charcoal and death carried on the breeze. Derek turned toward it, and Erica followed Derek. They jumped over a creek and slid down a sharply cut clifflet of wet leaves and mud. Then they were in the open, the Hale house a smoldering ruin that wouldn't provide anything like cover. 

Erica dropped her cargo near Stiles, whirling around to face the woods. The others followed her out, gathering in a tight knot. Nothing was right about the clearing—it smelled like alphas and danger and terror and something was wrong wrong _wrong_ —

"What's going on?" Allison panted, gripping her bag to her chest. Mud streaked across her cheeks and knees from where she'd fallen. "We need to find cover. Call for help."

"There isn't any cover!" Scott growled. In the trees, something cracked like lightning. A bullet whizzed by, nicking Scott's arm, hitting the ground in the center of their group with a puff of disturbed leaves. "Scatter!"

Dropping to all fours, Erica darted for the safety of the burned-out rubble. It was still hot from the fire, but it was something. A few more gunshots followed her as she ducked through, bare feet burning. The course through the house let her out in what used to be the back yard. Getting even lower, she cut hard to the left and around what used to be a shed before the first fire, putting it between her and the origin of the bullets. 

All around her, she could hear the noises of the pack trying to do the same. There were only so many alphas; it stood to reason that they couldn't just sit back and pick them off with guns. If it even _was_ the alphas. A memory of arrows slapping into Boyd's chest flashed behind her eyes, so sharp and real that she had to rub them to clear it.

If it was hunters again, Erica was going to kill every single Argent she could find. She'd give those bastards a reason to be afraid of werewolves. 

The clearing around the Hale house went quiet. Then, softly, a crunch of still-warm wood to her left. Erica rolled just in time to miss a bullet where her head had been. She came back up on all fours, teeth bared. The bullet had landed close enough that she could smell the mixed reek of gunpowder and wolfsbane. 

Somewhere in the clearing, two people screamed, followed by a howl of rage. It sounded like Stiles. 

A dark burn of anger curled in her, pure and hot. Red edged her vision, coloring the world over. It was like and unlike what a full moon was—rage filled her limbs, made her thoughts quick, but there was no loss there. Erica was done with being controlled. 

" _Where are you_?" she shouted, throwing back her head to make it carry. Stupid as it was, she stood, making herself a target. "Come out and fight you coward!" 

Another creak of wood. Again, Erica whipped around, ready to dodge, but this time no bullet landed. Kali grinned at her from atop a tree limb, rifle balanced on her shoulder. "Aren't you the feisty one." One smooth roll of her hips and she was off the branch, gun still up and aimed. "I don't remember you being this much fun to play with before. Maybe I should keep you as a toy." 

Erica bared her fangs. "Come and try."

Kali fired. Erica rolled, ducking under the bullet easily and darting forward. Instincts handled her movements; it felt like all she had to do was let them have it. The gun sounded again; again, Erica ducked and kept going. 

Red eyes widened as Kali realized what was happening. With a curse she ducked down and back, just in time to miss getting a face full of Erica's claws. 

The gun hit the dirt, abandoned as Kali came back up with both hands, claws curved to try and gut Erica from the navel up. 

Leaves skidded under her feet as Erica dropped back to dodge. Instead of changing her trajectory, Kali grabbed Erica by the arms and heaved. Old training sessions clicked into place. Erica curled into a ball just before landing, rolling to her feet in time to spring forward again. Her claws raked over Kali's face. The blood poured down her forehead in a sudden mask of sweet copper. 

Erica pressed forward, getting in another good swipe. She thought she felt claws sink into her arm, but it barely registered. Kali had more experience, but Erica was mad, enraged. Rushing forward, she slammed her elbow into Kali's jaw. Bone cracked. Another blow knocked her back, slick leaves sending her tumbling. 

Instinctively, Erica threw herself after, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of Kali's throat for a fraction of a second. Then clawed feet caught her in the stomach and lifted. The second time, there wasn't a chance to catch herself. Her head cracked painfully against something hard and metal when she landed. 

Kali had rolled over to all fours, head low and shoulders hunched. Her jaw cracked back into place with a sick pop. Then it started changing, nose and chin stretching out, forehead receding. Slowly, she paced forward as dark fur slid over her body. 

"Oh, you _will_ be a fun toy," she purred, voice turned grotesque by her new mouth. Her paws flexed, claws digging trenches in the dirt.

Scrambling back, Erica's hand slid a long, thin object. It felt like metal. Taking a deep breath, she stopped moving, curling her fingers around the barrel. She held still, waiting until Kali's shoulders bunched for a leap. Then she rolled, bringing the rifle up and swinging. It cracked Kali across the skull, making her stumble on landing.

Without pause, Erica rolled to her feet, brought the stock up to her shoulder and fired. 

Blood spayed as the bullet punched through Kali's shoulder. She went down to her knees, curled in on injured arm as the alpha form vanished away. For a long second she didn't move. Without her own fight to distract her, Erica could hear the others yelling back and forth to each other, yelps of pain when someone took a hit.

It made her grip on the rifle tighten. "Run. Run, and don't ever come back." 

"Why don't you just kill me?" Slowly, Kali lifted her head, teeth bared in a weak snarl. Already there were lines of black running from the wound, making for her heart. "Become an alpha. Isn't that what everyone wants?" 

Erica took a deep breath, listening to the sounds of her pack fighting, then shook her head. "No. I have everything I want."

One shaky limb at a time, Kali climbed to her feet and backed away. The wound was still oozing black blood, and it reeked of rot. She didn't turn her back until she hit the treeline. Then she turned and vanished.

* * *

"Scatter!"

Scott followed his own order, scrambling to make for a part of the house that hadn't fallen in yet. It was barely a freestanding wall, still scorched at the edges. A few more half-hearted gunshots followed, but they didn't even come close. He thought he saw Isaac make for the treeline, while Stiles herded Allison toward a different part of the house. Boyd, Erica and Derek were somewhere—he could hear Derek growling, the sound sending shivers up his spine.

Silence reigned. Scott tried to calm down his heart, to listen for anything out of place. The remains of the house smelled like smoke and charcoal, the reek overpowering everything else. 

"Hiding. I would have expected better of you." As easily as if he were taking a walk, Deucalion stepped out from behind the trees. He didn't have his game face on, but everything about him said _power_ , from the set of his shoulders to the way he looked around the clearing. Peter followed a few steps behind, eyes low and beta blue. 

Stopping in the middle of what used to be the front yard, Deucalion hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. A gun rested in a shoulder holster, bouncing against his bare ribs. "Do we have to make this difficult?"

A second later, he jerked his head to the side. A crossbow bolt whizzed by, nearly nicking his ear. It exploded where it embedded in the ground behind him in a burning flash of light.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw Allison ducking back behind a tree, already reloading one of her portable crossbows.

Deucalion twisted to look behind him at the fresh mark still smoldering in the leaves. When he looked back up, his eyes had started to turn to red. "I see. Your choice, then.Gentlemen."

At first, nothing happened. Then there was movement in the tree branches. Two figures jumped down, carrying one squirming bundle each. It took Scott a second to recognize the Sheriff and Chris Argent. They were slung over Locke and Aiden's shoulders, thoroughly gagged and tied up. Both of them fought, twisting and cursing through the rags stuffed in their mouth. Chris kept trying to slam his elbow into Aiden's head, and the Sheriff had struggled so much he was almost sideways in Locke's grip. 

"Now," Deucalion said sternly as the two humans were dropped on the ground to either side of him, "you lot have caused quite a lot of problems for me. I believe I've found a solution." 

A railroad spike glinted in the moonlight as Locke held it up, positioning it over the Sheriff's calf. On the other side of Deucalion, Aiden did the same with Chris. Neither Peter nor Deucalion acknowledged the noises as the humans were shoved around and finally held in place. 

_Peter, do something._ Scott bit his lip, eyes fixed on the spike. The Sheriff and Mr. Argent struggled, but they were no match for two alpha werewolves. _You said you were on our side—damn it, Peter!_

Deucalion stood over the writhing men, smiling like a proud father. "It can take a few hours for a human to bleed out, I hear," he commented casually. "Assuming you miss major vessels. Let's find out how long they can last, shall we?"

Grinning, the werewolves shoved the spikes through.

Their screams were loud, even with the muffling cloth. The Sheriff's face twisted as Locke ground in the spike, seating it solidly into the dirt. The smell of fresh blood flooded the clearing, overpowering even the reek of the fire. 

Stiles howled. In a rush, he burst out of the trees. He moved so fast he was a blur, suddenly barreling into Locke's stomach. Derek was right on his heels, sinking his teeth into Locke's shoulder. The alpha twisted, screaming as he ripped free, but Stiles was already on him again. They rolled, leaves flying, growling and snapping like actual wolves.

Snarling, Deucalion threw himself at Stiles, sinking his claws into his back and tossing him through the air like a ragdoll. Then Derek was on him, ripping chunks of meat from Deucalion's back. 

The sound of the alphas fighting cut right through Scott's bones, popping out his claws. Rage curdled in his stomach. Snarling, he threw himself out of his cover, sneakers skidding over the slightly smoother surface that used to be a driveway. Aiden grinned at him, face half taken over by a muzzle. Without pausing to plan, Scott leaped. He got in a single good slash across Aiden's eyes before a clawed fist caught him in the gut, followed by an uppercut that sent him sprawling. 

As Scott tried to get up, he saw Isaac and Boyd come out of their own hiding spots, headed for the pinned humans. Locke met them halfway, barreling into the betas and managing to take Isaac down before Boyd was on him. Then Aiden was back, kicking at his face. He ducked to the side, rolling over his shoulder and back onto his feet. 

Roaring, Scott rushed forward, claws flashing. Aiden ducked and wove too fast; only about half of Scott's blows landed, and those that did healed up almost immediately. Still, Scott didn't let it stop him, whipping around to land a kick to the alpha's head. Bone cracked as Aiden's neck snapped back. 

Before the alpha could recover, Scott leaped. He landed with his knees square in Aiden's back, sending him stumbling forward to keep upright. Vicious, Scott sank in his claws, digging them into the space between ribs and holding on. He could feel the slimy, crawling sensation of flesh trying to heal around him, but he kept yanking and clawing to keep it open.

Aiden screamed, whipping around to try and knock Scott off. He reached behind with his claws, scoring long lines across Scott's legs and sides. It only made Scott dig in harder, feeling bone crack under his grip. 

A crossbow bolt sang through the air, burying itself in Aiden's chest. He convulsed, and Scott's blood-slick grip finally gave way. He tumbled forward, managing to roll and come up on his feet.

Grinning, Aiden turned his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. Scott watched in horror as the handholds he'd gouged in healed over. In less than a minute, they had vanished. "I think your little girlfriend got my lung," the alpha commented. "You're going to pay for that."

There was no time to get out of the way when he leaped. Scott dropped, trying to duck, but Aiden moved too fast. In a flash he was on him, claws sinking into Scott's stomach and ripping. Pain flared, blinding out everything for a second. He felt himself be picked up and thrown. Somehow, Scott managed to get his legs back under him before he landed. Something in his hip cracked, making him cry out, but it was better than the burning drip of fire in his chest and stomach.

Another blow came, but this time Scott dropped down, one hand pressed to his stomach as he shuffled back. The wound didn't feel huge—there was nothing falling out, at least. But it wasn't healing fast enough. Every time he moved, the muscles pulled painfully. 

Leaves shuffled. "Stupid brat." A blow caught the side of Scott's head, sending him sprawling. "You thought you could win, didn't you? Pathetic."

Scott spat out a mouthful of blood, looking up. Aiden was just standing there, grinning. Behind him, something moved. "I don't think I can win." He pushed upright, panting when it moved the sliced muscles in his chest and stomach. "I _know_ I can."

Aiden laughed, fangs bared. "Oh? And why's that?" 

Pulling back his lips, Scott made himself grin. "Because I'm not fighting alone."

Boyd slammed into Aiden's back, raking his claws across the alpha's spine. Scott took advantage, throwing himself forward to claw at the alpha's throat and stomach. The wounds healed almost as fast as he could inflict them, but he kept it up, working until there was a bloody mess under his claws. 

" _Scott_! _Boyd_!" Allison screamed. 

They both sprang away, rolling to their feet just in time to see Allison's bolt plunge home in Aiden's throat. It exploded in a burst of blood and meat. Aiden choked out a dying scream, then fell limp, the red fading from his eyes.

"Thanks." Scott braced himself on his knees, staying low for balance as he tried to pull himself together. Most of his stomach felt healed, but he took care moving anyway. "Come on. Let's finish this." 

On the other side of the yard, Locke was down, ripped to bloody pieces across the lawn. Isaac was trying to free the Sheriff and Mr. Argent. He'd gotten Chris free, though from the way the man was lying he might have been unconscious, and was working at the other. In front of them, Stiles was ripping into Deucalion, face and hands thick with gore. There wasn't a piece of either of them that wasn't covered in blood. Allison hung back, evidence of her help visible in the crossbow bolts that stuck out of Deucalion like hedgehog spines.

Derek was nowhere in sight. Peter was missing too, but Scott knew Peter. He'd be around somewhere, waiting for his chance. And Scott would have to be there when it came.

Dropping down on all fours, Scott crossed the length of the yard in a few long bounds. He landed on Deucalion's back the same way he had Aiden's. His teeth sank into the nape of the alpha's neck, latching on. Unlike Aiden's blind flailing, Deucalion just dropped, throwing himself backwards. Scott let go, rolling to his feet, ending up shoulder to shoulder with Stiles. Isaac and Boyd crouched in front of the Sheriff, protecting him while Allison covered her father. 

Scott smelled wolfsbane. 

He felt more than saw Deucalion go for the gun, the movement blurred with speed. 

Something else moved faster. 

Derek sprang from behind, landing square on Stiles just as the gunshot sounded. One of Allison's flash bulb bolts went off next, blindingly bright after being in the dark for so long. Scott cried out and stumbled backwards, covering his eyes too late to keep them from burning in the light. Meat thumped and ripped. Then, silence. 

A second later, Allison cried out, and there was a crunch of wood. Stiles' growl reached new heights. 

"Well, well, that was a close call," Peter said from somewhere in the light-smeared darkness. "You should be careful with that. Someone might get hurt." 

Another gunshot. Scott jumped to the side, hearing the bullet pock into the dirt near his foot. He could almost make out the shapes of Peter and Deucalion standing shoulder to shoulder, the gun nowhere in sight. Derek crouched in front of them, standing over the unconscious shapes of Boyd and Isaac. Stiles stood next to him, face a mess of gore. Allison was further away, blurrier, but knelt down and at least awake.

"Peter," Derek growled, the word low and dragging. His claws dug in with a sound like rock grinding. 

"You remember my name. I'm touched," Peter smiled. 

Slowly, like he was remembering how to balance, Derek rose to two legs. He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. "Don't be." Fur rippled over Derek's back, rising and receding before finally taking over. Muscles and bones shifted around, arching. Derek fell forward as his hands shifted into something closer to paws. Next to him, Stiles looked almost tiny, though no less dangerous. 

Derek roared, leaping, with Stiles only a second behind him. Scott hesitated a second before throwing himself into the pile. Peter and Deucalion stood back to back, ducking and weaving like they'd been working together for years. Derek and Stiles snapped at them, rushing to try and force them away, claws swinging. Scott went higher, focusing on Peter and hoping to at least be a distraction from the alphas. 

Peter played games. He stayed close to Deucalion, not giving Scott enough room to lure him away. Scott punched at his face, then raked with his claws, ducking a return blow. He twisted to avoid Stiles, who was mostly trying to sink his teeth into whatever he could get ahold of. It gave Peter just enough of an advantage that Scott couldn't dodge his next blow. It landed square across his still-tender chest, raking down deep. 

With his other hand, Peter grabbed what was left of Scott's shirt and reeled him in. "I didn't want to do this, Scott," he murmured. "Tell Derek that for me." A second later, he lifted Scott up by his shirt and hip and heaved him away. Scott landed heavy on his back, coughing as he tried to roll to his feet. Fifty feet away, Peter was laying into Stiles, shredding his back and arms. Something flickered through the trees, a hint of blond curls catching Scott's eye. 

"Allison! Catch!" Then Erica was _there_ , whipping something overhead and letting fly. The throw went wide, but Allison dived, snatching the object from the air and twisting around. 

The blast cracked through the air. Deucalion jerked once, blood spraying from his stomach. He pressed a hand to it, baring his teeth. "You little—"

Peter moved. A flash of the claws and it was over. 

Deucalion's head dropped to the ground and rolled, the red fading from his eyes. The same color rose in Peter's. He tilted his head, sighing. "And back to square two." 

Dragging himself to his feet, Scott staggered over to stand between Derek and Stiles. Erica and Allison did the same, taking either side. The holes in his torso aches, wounds having built up to the point where they were healing only sluggishly. Still, Scott bent his knees, ready to finish it.

Peter looked around, eyes flicking from Stiles to Allison to Scott. Notably, he didn't look at Derek. "Are we going to have any difficulties?" he asked, voice soft and mild. Reasonable.

No one moved. 

"I didn't think we would. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll take my leave." Tilting an imaginary hat, he turned to stroll away.

Scott leaped to chase, and was caught by Derek's outstretched arm slamming into his chest. It brought him to a sharp stop, almost sending him back to the dirt when his still-unhealed muscles protested.

"Don't. Let him go," Derek said, the words slurred through his teeth. Bit by bit, his face melted back into something closer to humanity, fur vanishing and paws turning back into hands. He didn't even make a token effort to hide his nudity. "It's over."

"Where's Kali?" Allison asked, looking around and counting bodies. He clutched the rifle to her chest, looking like she was ready to whip it up and shoot again. "Is she..?"

"Looking for a bullet." Erica's game-face vanished too as she turned to check Isaac and Boyd, who were just starting to come around. She slipped under Boyd's arm, hauling him to his feet in spite of his grumbled protests. 

"You should have killed her," Derek said, kneeling down next to Locke, probing in the body's pockets. He shook his head with a growl. "She'll be back."

Erica snorted. "I don't want to be an alpha. Too much work. Are you going to be putting on pants any time soon, or is this going to be permanent?" 

Derek grunted, head turned to scan the trees with a dark expression. 

Stiles paced forward, sniffing at Deucalion's foot. His nose worked up the dead man's leg to his stomach, where he sneezed at the bullet wound. Then he stepped away from the body, taking small, uncertain steps toward his father, eventually collapsing into the Sheriff's chest. 

Mr. Stilinski wrapped his arms around Stiles, not seeming to mind when blood smeared over his cheek and shoulder. 

Scott watched for a second, then gave himself a hard shake, adrenalin crash already making his head woozy. "Someone who has a cell phone signal call my mom," he ordered, stumbling over to Stiles and his dad. He could see why Isaac hadn't been able to get the spike out; Peter had embedded it deep enough that the edges had sunk under the skin. "Derek, I need—" Lifting his head, Scott looked around. 

Derek was gone.

* * *

Facing the prospect of Stiles running off to continue living in the woods, Boyd did the only thing he could think would work.

He sat on him. 

Stiles wasn't happy about it. He whined and twisted, squirming to try and gnaw balefully on Boyd's arm when it drifted too close to his teeth. _No_ was a constant mantra through the whole thing, muffled only when his mouth was full. Even though Derek seemed to have gotten a grip on himself, Stiles wasn't showing any signs of awareness, unless finally having a word was progress. Knowing Stiles, Boyd wasn't too sure of that.

Still, for all his protests, Stiles didn't try too hard to escape beyond the whining and squirming. Either too tired or comforted enough by Boyd's presence and having the Sheriff nearby, it was hard to say. They stayed close enough that Stiles' leg pressed against his father's hip, which seemed to help. 

While they were occupied, the rest of the clearing was a hustle of work. Allison took over the phones, calling Mrs. McCall and making plans for medical care. Erica took the rifle and went out into the woods to make sure there weren't any lurkers nearby. Scott and Isaac took care of the bodies. Or, in Locke's case, the pieces of the bodies. There was no doubt they'd be discovered eventually, but no one wanted to deal with the mess that would be finding more "wild animal attack" victims on the old Hale place. Derek, wherever he went to, definitely wouldn't. 

When Erica got back, she joined Boyd in alpha-sitting duty, wrapping herself around Stiles' other side and tucking her chin over his shoulder. Stiles quieted a little, then shifted his chewing to Erica's hair. She made a face, but let him. "I'm surprised he hasn't run yet."

Boyd shrugged, eyes drifting around to the others. Mrs. McCall still hadn't arrived, but Mr. Argent was conscious again and Mr. Stilinski was getting his leg wrapped by Scott while Stiles grumbled at every flinch and whimper. "Who knows. Maybe he's tired of running."

Her nose wrinkled. "He's not the only one," Erica muttered, low enough that it would have taken a werewolf to hear her. 

Stretching, Boyd bumped his knee into Erica's. She bumped back with a tired smile.

They had a few minutes of peace before Allison dropped down to the ground near them. She only got close enough to touch a foot to Stiles' when he made an unhappy sound and moved like he'd go to her. Like the rest of them, she was a mess of blood and mud, though less of the first and more of the last.

"Should only be a few minutes. Melissa said she's almost here." Allison's eyes stayed locked on the far end of the driveway, her lower lip caught nervously between her teeth. Her hands played over the individual blades of grass that were managing to poke through the thick layer of dead leaves. "It's going to be a weird summer after this."

If Boyd had to name what Allison smelled like just then, he would have called it anxious. Under the blood, sweat and muck, there was a sharp, thin scent that reminded him of a hospital. He craned his head to get a better look at her, marking down her fidgeting. 

"I just— I don't know how things are going to go, and this is a bad time, but I need— I _should_ say..." Allison bounced her toe against the top of Stiles' foot. "I'm sorry. I know it's not enough, but I'm sorry." She swallowed, heartbeat high but steady. "I'm so sorry." 

Boyd looked over at Erica over Stiles' shoulders, raising his eyebrows. He could still remember what it felt like when her arrows sank into him, how it felt to find out that the calls they'd thought they'd been following had been a trick. No apology would ever replace that. 

But she'd put her life on the line to fight with them in the end. There wasn't much that could replace that, either. 

Erica shrugged one shoulder and shifted away from Stiles a little, lifting her arm and beckoning. Allison blinked, shifting away uncertainly, like she thought it was a trick. Rolling her eyes, Erica beckoned again.

"Get over here." 

Like she was walking on glass, Allison rolled up to her knees and crawled over into the tiny slip of a place Erica had opened up. Stiles had gone still, only the tension in his muscles left to suggest that he hadn't fallen asleep. He let Allison wedge herself in, only huffing once she'd finished and twisting his head into her shoulder. 

Boyd adjusted his grip so his arm passed across Allison's before tangling his fingers in Erica's. Across the way, he thought he saw Chris Argent sending a look of disapproval in their direction, but he didn't care enough to look twice. Allison's heart was fast but steady, 

The distant sound of Mrs. McCall's car approaching carried into the clearing. There was a thrum to the motor that Boyd had never managed to put his finger on, but it was perfectly unique. Sighing, Boyd closed his eyes. When she got there, the furor would all start up again with getting the adults to medical attention and figuring out how to get Stiles somewhere safe. The quiet wouldn't last, and he was going to enjoy it while it did.

* * *

Pain medication was a beautiful thing. 

Randy watched approvingly as Isaac cooked dinner, which was pounds and pounds of red meat with a nod toward vegetables. Erica and Boyd had volunteered to handle potatoes and dishes, and Scott was supposedly going to come around with a new package of boxers for Stiles to put up with for a day and then shred. Thanks to the work of the pack of kids who'd somehow adopted him, his leg was propped up on a pile of pillows, and a blanket had been placed close to one hand. The other hand was, hypothetically, close to a tray of snacks and a cold drink. In reality, that arm was pinned solidly under Stiles, making the little cheese crackers as distant as the moon. 

Running his free hand through his hair, Randy looked around at the thin line of glittery powder that was all that stood between him and chasing his son naked through the woods. Again. It looked good, but worry itched at him under the lassitude of being well drugged. He'd have to get Scott to walk it again to make sure it was still solid.

The whole second floor had been blocked off with mountain ash as a sort of werewolf cage, with only a small break that led to an equally ash-lined downstairs. They'd had to do a little remodeling to make it work. Doors had come off their hinges and in a few places furniture had been removed. Stiles didn't like it; he growled every time he accidentally got near the line. But as long as someone was with him—Scott for preference, though he hadn't actually rejected anyone yet—he would calm down. 

Chris hadn't been happy about Allison helping him lay the ash down. He was of the opinion that Stiles should be locked up somewhere safe. The way he'd said it made it perfectly clear that he was more concerned about keeping others safe from Stiles more than keeping Stiles safe from others. As far as Randy was concerned, that meant he was making the right choice. 

On his lap, Stiles made a soft snuffling noise in his sleep, turning his head into Randy's stomach. Gently, Randy ran his fingers through his son's hair. 

Definitely the right choice.

* * *

Warm bodies curled around him—someone at the head of the pile, someone else had their face shoved into his shoulder. Two more weren't touching him, but they were close enough that he could feel the heat coming from their bodies. _Pack._ Close by there was someone hurt, smells of blood and pain and chemicals, but it was a healing hurt. 

It was quiet. There'd been a lot of quiet, but this time it felt safe. Every scent was familiar, every touch pack and family and good things. There was a hollow place in it, something that wasn't right. It was okay, though. Not a danger. Fixable. He didn't have to run anymore. 

Stiles opened his eyes. 

They were in his dad's bedroom. Most of the furniture was gone, and the mattress had been moved to the floor. Shutters had been installed and closed tightly, making it impossible to be sure of the time without a clock, but Stiles thought it felt early. A line of mountain ash ran along the edge of all the baseboards, a sharp, shiny pressure against his skin that filled his mouth with the taste of new wood and growing things. He was mostly in some boxers; they were clawed up, but not really indecent yet. 

There were two other people in the house; he could hear their heartbeats somewhere below, feel their presence like a ghost-touch on his skin. Other than the ash, the scent and sizzle of frying bacon was impossible to miss, accompanied by an odd vanilla-not-vanilla and something burnt-earthy that he thought might have been toast. 

Carefully, he extracted himself from Scott and Isaac, twisting to step over where Erica was hogging most of the mattress and about half of Boyd. It felt like playing a weird game of Twister, except with pointier consequences if he slipped. Which was actually a possibility, shiny new werewolf agility or no. His knee clicked when he put weight on it wrong, and it didn't seem to want to bend all the way. He was pretty sure he was going to have to rebreak and then set it for the werewolf healing to be any good. 

That was going to suck.

The line of ash continued into the hallway. It looked like it had been solid at the stairs, but someone had broken it there. Stepping over raised the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck, gave him the most incredible urge to run back and bury himself in his pack until the prickling went away. The stairs were a tight hallway, lined with PVC pipe that Stiles assumed had more ash in it. 

_Too tight too small can't escape_ —

He kept his breath steady and forced himself to take the stairs one at a time. The living room hadn't been changed as much as the rest of the house. A few things had been shoved around, and the ottoman had been moved in front of the couch rather than the coffee table, but that was it. Stiles followed the sounds of cooking to the dining room, where his dad was sitting at the table next to a pair of crutches, his injured leg propped up on a second chair. In the attached kitchen, Isaac's scent mixed with French toast and eggs and a sort of _comfortdenpackgood_ smell wasn't anything words could describe.

Stiles swallowed the lump in his throat. "You're not supposed to be eating bacon."

A plate clattered to the floor in the kitchen. His dad twisted, almost dropping out of his chair. "Stiles?"

Smiling was hard. The muscles didn't want to work right. He made himself, and if it came out wrong at least he tried. "That's me. No more Encino... werewolf, I guess."

His dad started to struggle out of the chair. Before he could hurt himself, Stiles closed the distance between them, dropping down to his knees to let himself be wrapped up in a hug. His face ended up buried in his dad's chest the way it hadn't been since he was little and the boogeyman had been in his closet. Stiles twisted his fist in his dad's shirt, clinging.

"I was— I thought—" His dad's voice choked off. He was shaking. "I was so worried. How do you feel?"

_The flash of an alpha's red eyes from above smoke gunshots blood in his mouth blood on his claws blood on his father—_

Stiles clenched his eyes tighter against the memories. "I'm okay, Dad," he lied. "We're going to be okay."


	10. Howl

Derek heard Stiles before he smelled him, smelled him before he saw him. It could have been deliberate. There were plenty of ways to sneak up on someone, even a werewolf. Stiles wasn't using any of them—his Jeep was a loud piece of rust and spare parts coming in from upwind. In the tiny, out of the way corner of Beacon Hills Derek's loft was in, even humans would have known he was coming. 

The warning gave him time, though. Time to choose, and to brace himself for the consequences. It was a nice change of pace from the rest of the year. There was something to be said when a couple of days spent out of his mind in the woods was the closest Derek had gotten to a break in a long time.

He waited until he heard the Jeep's brakes squeak, the engine cut off. Then he went to the front door and cracked it before grabbing two bottles from the refrigerator and going to wait on the upstairs balcony. Leaning over the railing, he closed his eyes against the late afternoon sun and listened.

Stiles didn't rush his way upstairs, which made Derek think the noise was deliberate. When he'd been human he'd been quieter, his footsteps softer. There was no way he didn't know the racket he was making. Derek knew the second he saw the open door; heartbeat spiked and his breath went still. The next step he took barely made any sound at all, and Derek lost track of him until the sliding door opened and the touch of another alpha's presence ghosted over his skin.

Wordlessly, Derek held out one of the condensation-slick bottles of beer. 

A pause. Then, "I'm not twenty one," said in slow, careful tones, each word obviously picked over.

Derek had to bite back a bitter laugh. "Never stopped you before."

" _Touché_." Stiles' fingers slid over his, a glancing touch before he'd grabbed the bottle and was gone again. The beer hissed as he popped the top and shifted forward against the rail. One little lean, a shift of weight and their shoulders would have been touching. 

It was incredibly tempting. Derek remembered most things from the time he'd spent feral, but it was a mess of disconnected instincts and sights. Reason tried to make sense of things that were wholly unreasonable, and time was at best a loose concept. Fitting any of it into a coherent string of events was going to take more work than Derek cared to put in. They were mostly good memories, and like most good things, better left unexamined. 

Unsurprisingly, it was Stiles who broke the silence. "Full moon's in a week." 

"I know." Derek finally opened his eyes, glancing over at Stiles without turning his head. He looked good—thinner in some places, sharper and more muscular in others. His skin had a fresh-scrubbed look that spoke of a lot of showers taken close together, and he'd finally gotten someone to cut his hair, even thought it was still longer than usual. There was no list to his balance, either, so someone must have helped out with his bad knee. 

News of Stiles being "found" in a local corpse-loaded warehouse had been all over the paper and the local stations. Even without a television or a subscription, Derek hadn't been able to miss it. The whole thing was being unofficially blamed on the Sheriff's shadowy political rivals who were suspected of ties to organized crime. No suspect had been named or taken into custody. In a few months, it would slip off the radar, the way things involving werewolves should. 

Derek hadn't been involved in any of it. It was better that way.

Stiles was tapping his fingers against each other, bouncing on the balls of his feet anxiously. "And Kali's still out there. Peter, too." 

_He didn't want to. He said to tell you that._ Scott's face had been an amusing mix of dead serious and completely confused when he'd tracked Derek down to pass on the message. All it did was confirm what Derek had known all along: Peter worked for Peter's own good. Collateral damage was regrettable. He hoped Peter wouldn't come back to Beacon Hills; Derek didn't want to kill him again. 

"I know." Derek took a long pull from his beer, pretending to watch the way the sun played over the trees in the distance. 

Glass clanged against metal as Stiles slammed his drink back down. "That's all you're going to say?" he demanded, the promise of a growl lingering in his voice. " _I know_? Really?"

"What else do you want me to say? They're out there, we can't do anything about it." Derek shrugged. 

"I want— _argh_." The claws came out, a sharp scratching sound against the glass bottle as Stiles flexed his hand around it. "We can't do this alone, dude."

A scent of _wild_ rose off him, dark and musky. It carried memories of running, trees scraping his bare sides when he dodged too close, the earth forgiving under his feet. Derek swallowed hard, tucking his chin down. "I know. I'll be there for the full moon."

Stiles actually growled, the scent of wolf getting stronger. " _Not_ what I meant." 

It took everything Derek had to keep his voice level, to not respond to the cues Stiles was giving off. "They're your pack." 

"They're _our_ pack." Weight shifted, and Stiles' shoulder was suddenly bumping into his. Then it was gone, the gesture fleeting as a kiss. "Look, screwed up things happened, and we're going to have to— to deal with it, or not deal with it, or whatever, but we can't make them unhappen and it's not going away." Stiles licked his lips, and after everything that happened, it shouldn't have been obscene. "I need you to not be mad at me, because I can't do this without you."

_Jesus._ "I'm not mad at you," Derek said, taking one last pull of his drink to finish it off. "I'm not— it wasn't your fault. You were out of your mind."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't your fault either." A quick grin split Stiles' lips, baring teeth that were only a little sharper than usual. "I topped the hell out of you, if you recall."

Derek told himself that the heat on his face was the summer sun. "That's not the point. The point is that you're a teenager, and..." He ran out of words. English wasn't really designed to explain the sort of pull he felt, the sixth and seventh senses that told Derek that the pack was good, safe, content, that Stiles was out there somewhere without him. Stiles probably didn't need it explained, anyway. "And it's a bad idea. You'll be a good alpha to them. You don't need me." 

"Bullshit." Stiles bumped him again, hard enough to make Derek sway. "I'm not ready to be an alpha. I can't even keep my egg alive in that stupid health class thing we did once. Dad won't give me a dog because I murdered a cactus by forgetting to water it. A _cactus_ , Derek."

In spite of himself, Derek laughed. It burst out of him in a startled bark, making him fold forward over the railing. 

Stiles took advantage of the opening, sliding the half-step over that it took to press his side tight against Derek's. "Look, I'm not saying anything about— about _us_. But you're part of this pack. We need you."

It was a thousand different types of bad ideas. Derek knew it instinctively. Balancing two alphas in a pack was tough when they were a couple; two who were in the weird limbo sort of stage that he and Stiles had landed in would be an outright disaster. Scott was never going to accept either of them, Erica and Boyd had run off once before, and God alone knew what was going through Isaac's head at any given second. He had a feeling that Allison had been adopted in too, that was bound to go terribly if he were involved. Every bit of common sense Derek had said that he should just make sure they knew how to survive full moons and then leave. 

The weight at his side got heavier. " _Derek_ ," Stiles said, low and urgent. "Don't leave me hanging."

Heaving a sigh, Derek relaxed into the pressure. He settled in, tossing his bottle into an open dumpster below. "Bring them over tomorrow. We'll see how it goes." 

He didn't need to look to know Stiles would be smiling. "Deal."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DONE.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who held my hand and forced me to edit edit edit, and thank you to the readers who have been incredibly patient with me. I hope this satisfies!


End file.
